Honeymoon
by redseeker
Summary: Tied together by bonds of circumstance and matrimony, Waylon Park and Eddie Gluskin have survived the hell of Mount Massive, but can they survive each other?
1. Honeymoon Suite

AN: Content warnings for this entire story include: rape (noncon and dubcon), graphic violence, physical and emotional abuse, mentions of suicide and child abuse, and explicit sex. Please proceed at your own discretion.

* * *

Blinded by the rising sun, Waylon Park pulled down the sun visor and squinted ahead. Miles Upshur's Jeep ate up the road, Waylon's foot heavy on the gas pedal as he put mile after blessed mile between him and Mount Massive Asylum.

He had been lucky to escape with his life.

That wasn't all he had escaped with.

He spared a quick look at his passenger before flicking on his turn signal and turning off the highway.

"I need to stop in Leadville to pick up a few things," he said. Eddie didn't respond. He was too busy staring out the windscreen at the road. Waylon figured he probably hadn't seen this much open space in years.

It took around forty-five minutes all in all to make the drive into the suburbs, but Waylon rolled around the block a few times, anxiously glancing at the clock on the dash, until he was certain Lisa and the boys would be out of the house. He longed to see them again, and ached to know how Lisa was doing, _what_ she was doing. She must have gone through hell, and he knew she had been fighting with everything she had to get to him, to get him out of that hellhole…

But he couldn't bring Eddie Gluskin into his family home. The idea of Eddie and Lisa running into each other… Well, it was unthinkable.

"Stay in the car," he said as he pulled up at last, after having checked the drive was empty and the lights were out. It was morning. The boys would be at school, Lisa at work.

"What is this place?" Eddie asked, finally rousing himself from his vacant silence and staring at the neat little house with its white fence outside. "It's beautiful."

"Just stay here," Waylon said, and got out, slamming the door harder than he needed. Why hadn't he thought to grab some handcuffs before leaving the asylum? Why had he brought Eddie with him at all?

But of course, he hadn't had any choice. There hadn't been time to hunt for cuffs or anything else, not with Blaire trying to kill him or that _thing_ , the _walrider_ , out for blood, anyone's blood. Waylon had hoped it would get Eddie too, but they had been out of the building before he could do anything about it, and then it was too late to separate and he hadn't had time to think of anything beyond getting the hell away from that place before the _walrider_ came back for seconds.

No, he was committed to this road now, and he would have to think on his feet if he wanted to keep his head – and everything else – attached.

 _I've made my bed_ , he thought to himself. _Now I have to lie in it._

He steered his thoughts away from the black hole that was his memories of the asylum, of exactly how he got into this particular marriage bed, and forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

He didn't have his keys, but they kept a spare under a planter around the back. He shinned over the low fence, found the key, and carefully let himself in by the back door. He moved on tiptoe until he was certain there was nobody home.

He stood for a moment in the middle of the kitchen, taking deep breaths and just absorbing the sensation of being _home_. Everything looked the way it should, just the way he remembered. The mess from breakfast was piled by the sink, and toys littered the hallway just beyond the kitchen door. In the asylum he'd wondered if he would ever be able to come back here again. Now he was here, it felt like he'd never left.

One glance down at his filthy jumpsuit reminded him of the truth.

He swore under his breath. He grabbed a scrap of paper and a pen from the junk drawer and scribbled a note for Lisa. He wished it could be longer, but every second he spent in the house was a risk. Besides, the more Lisa knew, the more danger she could end up in. He told her only that he was alive and that he would tell her the truth one day. One day he would _show_ everyone the truth about what happened in that awful place, but for now he had to focus on staying alive. He told her to take the boys and go somewhere safe, somewhere far away from Mount Massive. He told her that he loved her.

He pinned the note to the refrigerator with a magnet and then dashed upstairs. He found his old gym bag in a closet and started filling it with essentials – his laptop, for starters. The one he'd had at the asylum had been a work machine, his personal laptop was still here at home, right where he'd left it in his office. He put it in the bag, along with an external hard-drive and various cables, and then moved back to the bedroom to grab clean clothes.

When he got there he pulled up short. Eddie stood in the middle of the room, staring around at the bland furnishings, the wallpaper, the shelves of knick-knacks and photographs. He looked so profoundly out of place, and his presence was a violation of a whole new sort. Waylon watched as he opened drawers and poked around, inspecting their contents.

"I said to wait in the car," Waylon snarled, panic making him careless.

"This is your home," Eddie said. He crossed to a chest of drawers, picked up a framed photo. "Who's this?"

Waylon's blood froze. "...No one."

Eddie set the photograph down and padded very quietly over to Waylon. Waylon packed handfuls of shirts and socks into his gym bag without seeing what he was picking up, trying to pretend he hadn't felt the temperature in the room drop several degrees.

"Don't lie to me, darling." Eddie was right behind Waylon now. Waylon stood up straight, braced himself, and dared turn to face him. Eddie's expression was bland, but Waylon knew him better than that by now.

"I was married before," Waylon said. "That's my wife, Lisa."

"Lisa." Eddie considered the name, seeming almost to taste it. It felt like he dirtied her name just by speaking it. "Where is she now?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen her in weeks," Waylon said truthfully. "I'm just here to pick up some stuff, and then we can leave."

"Won't she be wondering where you are?"

"Probably." Waylon crammed the last few things he could into his bag and forced the zipper shut. He took a deep breath, slung the bag's strap over his shoulder. "It doesn't matter. I'm with you now," he made himself say.

Eddie clucked in disapproval. "I can't say I'm happy about this. I had hoped to be your first." Eddie reached out, took the bag from Waylon's shoulder and dropped it to the floor. Then he grabbed the front of Waylon's jumpsuit and pulled him toward him, into a harsh and biting kiss. Waylon squirmed and pushed at Eddie's chest, but Eddie swiftly turned him around and walked him to the bed, then threw him down on top of the rumpled white comforter.

 _No_ , Waylon thought desperately. _Not here, not on the bed I shared with her…!_

"Eddie, wait-" Waylon tried as Eddie crawled on top of him. A hand tangled in his hair, forcing his head back. Eddie licked up the column of Waylon's throat, then placed a line of slow, sucking kisses all the way back down. "It's… it's not safe here. Not here."

"Mm? Why?" Eddie's other hand was already burrowing under Waylon's clothes. Dirt from Waylon's jumpsuit was transferring to the comforter, leaving dark smudges.

Waylon wriggled beneath Eddie and persisted, "This will be the first place Murkoff look for me – for us. We can't afford to relax until we're far away."

"Hmm..." Eddie frowned, but he lifted himself off Waylon and let the smaller man back onto his feet.

Relieved his gambit worked, Waylon grabbed his bag once again and made for the door, gesturing for Eddie to hurry after him. Eddie dawdled, poking his head into the doorways they passed, including Waylon's home office and the boys' bedrooms. That made Waylon's skin crawl, and he couldn't be more eager to get Eddie out of this house for good.

"This is a nice house," Eddie remarked as they made their way downstairs. "We should come back here, after everything's smoothed over. Settle down… This would be a nice place to raise a family."

 _It_ is _a nice place to raise a family_ , Waylon thought, gritting his teeth.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Waylon heard a key turn in the front lock. He froze for just a second, before reaching behind him to grab Eddie's wrist and tugging the big man forward. "Hurry!" he whispered. He led Eddie through the kitchen and out the back door, keeping low, even as the front door opened. He didn't stop to lock the back door, instead dragging Eddie out the garden, over the fence, and back to the Jeep. "Get in."

Eddie wasn't as fast moving as Waylon would have liked, but he still obeyed. Waylon tossed the gym bag into the back of the car and threw himself into the driving seat. As he slammed the door shut, the front door of the house opened again. He looked, he couldn't help it. Lisa peered out at the car across the street. The wind swept her dark hair around her shoulders, and her eyes found his instantly. She was as beautiful as he ever remembered.

He recovered an instant later, started the car even though his fingers were shaking and slippery with sweat. He threw the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb without looking, slammed his foot on the gas as Lisa ran into the road behind the car, calling his name.

* * *

" _Wait… Stop. Please stop."_

" _Now now. We need to make it official, darling."_

 _Waylon fought back tears as Eddie laid him down upon the makeshift altar. Eddie loomed over him, admiring his handiwork, and ran his hands down Waylon's body. The wedding gown Eddie had made for him hugged the taper of Waylon's waist, accentuated his narrow hips to make them appear slightly wider than they were. The bodice was padded in the chest to give the illusion of breasts. Eddie grabbed fistfuls of the stiff fabric and lifted up the full skirts, exposing Waylon's legs. Waylon tried to push him away but he didn't dare to truly fight him. Eddie didn't need his knives to kill – one swipe of those meaty fists could crack his skull open like an egg._

 _He cast a frantic look at the "guests" – Eddie had rounded up a handful of patients, and those who were still alive were either too mutilated to go anywhere or else they sat in a catatonic stupor upon the chairs Eddie had arranged in rows in this mockery of a chapel. And now Eddie was going to consummate this farce of a marriage in front of them all._

 _Waylon gave a choked sob. There was no one there to save him._

" _Please-"_

" _Yes, yes, I know. I'm eager too." Eddie's fixed smile didn't falter, but Waylon saw a glitter in his eyes that warned him not to do anything to push Eddie out of his delusion. Better to submit to this humiliation than find himself strapped down in Eddie's torture chamber again. He was lucky to still be intact at all. Who knew how long that would last?_

 _Eddie's hands roamed over Waylon's skin as the skirt rucked up about Waylon's waist. Waylon let his head fall back against the altar, and he shut his eyes in a vain attempt to block out everything around him. But he couldn't block out the ever-present stink of blood and fear-sweat, nor could he drown out the muttering and moaning of the guests, and he sure as hell couldn't take his mind off Eddie's hands, large and hot and demanding, grasping his hips and pulling his ass to the edge of the altar. Waylon's legs fell open and Eddie muscled in between them. Waylon gave a broken cry as Eddie thrust inside him. He was dry, but Eddie was determined. Eddie shushed and soothed him, wiped his tears away with gentle swipes of his thumbs, but he didn't stop._

" _It's all right, my love," he cooed. "Hush now, it'll be over soon. I know you can bear it, for me. The first time is supposed to hurt."_

* * *

They didn't speak for hours. Waylon pulled in at a gas station just past midday. He'd had the presence of mind to grab some cash from home, and used some of it to buy some food. Eddie was in an uncharacteristically quiet mood, and accepted the sandwich Waylon got him without remark.

Waylon thought about using the payphone at the gas station and calling the cops, but in the end he didn't. The combined risk of Murkoff catching up with him, and Eddie's wrath should he find out, was more than Waylon was ready to contend with yet.

Hating himself for his cowardice, he kept driving until the sun was well beyond the horizon and night had fallen, and exhaustion was setting in. his vision was getting blurry, and his hands shook at the wheel. When he saw a sign for a motel, he turned in without hesitation.

He took care of getting the room, and Eddie still didn't say a word. His silence ate away at Waylon's peace of mind, such as it was. He tried not to react to it. Like with a mad dog, Eddie might turn aggressive if he scented fear.

As soon as they entered the small, dim motel room Waylon set his gym bag on the little table and busied himself getting out his laptop and setting it up, intending to get the footage off his camera and onto the computer as soon as possible.

He heard the lock click and glanced up to see Eddie's imposing shape blocking the door. He kicked off his shoes and padded toward Waylon slowly, unfastening and removing his tie as he did so. Next he shrugged off the waistcoat, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Not now," Waylon said. He had just managed to get the laptop up and running and the camera plugged in.

"Now," Eddie said. He grabbed Waylon's arm and threw him across the room, startling Waylon with the reminder of his easy and brutal strength. He tumbled to the floor, and as he was rising to his feet Eddie grasped the back of his collar and heaved him up, only to toss him onto the bed. He pushed him face down and tore at Waylon's clothes. Waylon heard fabric rip, and instinctively tried to crawl away from his attacker. Eddie grabbed him by the hair and smashed his face down against the mattress until Waylon stopped struggling purely out of a desire to be able to breathe. Eddie made short work of Waylon's clothes. The filth-encrusted uniform from Mount Massive was reduced to nothing but tattered rags, leaving Waylon naked and exposed.

"Who do you belong to?" Eddie straddled Waylon's thighs and raked his nails down Waylon's back.

"What?"

"Tell me, my love. My sweet." There was an edge to Eddie's voice despite his sugary words. He stretched himself out atop Waylon, pinning him down with the weight of his body and sliding a hand around Waylon's throat. Waylon's breath hitched, and he held himself very still. Eddie's hand tightened around Waylon's neck, tighter and tighter, until black spots swam in Waylon's vision.

 _Forgive me, Lisa_.

Waylon squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't cry. He'd cried himself dry in the asylum, and there were no tears left any more.

Waylon gasped for breath, and Eddie eased off the pressure just enough to let him speak.

"I… You," he choked. The words tasted bitter on his tongue. "I belong to you."

* * *

 _After the wedding, Waylon lost his sense of time._

 _The first time had hurt, a lot. And so had the second time, and the third, and after that Waylon had lost track. He had retreated into himself for a time, it was impossible to say how long. It could have been hours, it could have been weeks, months, a lifetime._

 _Paralysed as he was by fear, he somehow managed to distinguish himself from the long line of failed brides, enough to keep Eddie's interest, enough to avoid falling into the myriad pitfalls that would end with him labelled as just another pretender, another lying bitch who didn't deserve love. On the contrary, Eddie doted on him. He found himself elevated to the position of queen of Eddie's macabre hell._

 _The trouble with sitting atop a pedestal was that one could fall from it at any moment, and in Waylon's case it was a very, very long way to fall. The sickly scents of rotting flesh and blood invaded his nostrils, permeated his entire being. He dwelled amongst Eddie's monstrous tableaux, blocked out the sounds of screams, pretended not to see when Eddie took out his rage on another hapless inmate foolish enough to descend into his domain._

 _Waylon might have been the queen, but Eddie still had his concubines. Waylon thought there might have been more deaths if he hadn't been there to mitigate Eddie's tempers and give him an outlet for certain of his more ardent passions, but he couldn't say for sure. Maybe that was just something he told himself to justify looking the other way and being grateful it was them and not him under Eddie's knife._

 _Eddie's desperate search for love was supposedly over, but habits were hard to break, and whatever dark desires drove Eddie to cut and kill went beyond simple lust, or the savage fury of a spurned lover._

 _Waylon did things, in that time. Things he didn't enjoy, and some things he did. Things he wasn't proud of, a lot of things he didn't care to remember, all in the name of survival as he waited for the perfect moment of opportunity when he could give Eddie the slip and make his escape._

 _That moment never came._

* * *

Waylon took the first shower. Eddie didn't argue, saying something about ladies needing their pampering. Waylon didn't care to correct him, and locked himself in the tiny bathroom for a few minutes of blissful respite. Being with Eddie all the time was wearing his nerves ragged. He leant against the door and took a deep breath, then pushed aside the mildewed shower curtain and set the water running. He turned the temperature as high as he could stand, and stepped into the tub and under the spray of the shower. He turned his face up into the water and simply stood there for a while, eyes closed, water so hot it was almost scalding running down his face and body and washing away the grime of the asylum. Would that it would wash away the filth inside of him as well. He felt as though his soul itself was dirtied. He unwrapped the small bar of soap provided and worked up a lather, then proceeded to scrub himself all over until his skin was pink. When he finally felt that he could do no more, he turned off the water and stepped out. He still didn't feel clean – he didn't think he would ever feel clean again – but if he scrubbed any more he'd start taking off skin.

He grabbed one of the towels and dried himself off. Then he wiped steam from the mirror and took a look at himself. He barely recognised the man staring back at him. His eyes were set in deep, dark hollows, and his skin was pale and dull. He was surprised he hadn't gained some grey hairs, but perhaps they would come in soon enough. It wouldn't be long before his roots grew out, after all. He looked like he had lost some weight as well.

He sighed, and then turned towards the door. He bit the inside of his lip as he stared at the lock. He glanced to the window and spent a few minutes wondering on the feasibility of squeezing through the little window and limping away to freedom, and simply leaving Eddie behind to be Someone Else's Problem. It was a small window, and he wouldn't get very far on foot. The car keys were in the bedroom, with Eddie.

Waylon silently cursed himself and his stupidity.

He had no choice but to keep playing happy families with the psychopath, at least for now.

He stared hard at the door for a while longer, until he was sure Eddie would wonder if he _had_ escaped after all, and then he steeled his will and stepped out.

When he emerged from the bathroom he found Eddie sitting on the bed with a swath of dark fabric across his knees and a needle and thread in his hand. A moment later, Waylon realised the second bed was missing its covers. Of course Eddie would assume they'd share a bed, even if it was one of these tiny twins. Well, it was far more luxurious than anything they had at Mount Massive, at least.

"What are you doing?" Waylon asked. "Where did you even get those from?"

Eddie was humming as he worked, but he paused to reply, "Making a new dress for you."

Waylon pursed his lips and dared to come closer. He examined Eddie's work.

"I have clothes," he said. "I got some from the house, remember?"

Eddie chuckled and shook his head. "Those are hardly suitable," he said.

Waylon watched him work for a moment more, and then said, "Pants. Not a dress."

Eddie clicked his tongue in disapproval. With a sigh, he said, "You modern girls. What's wrong with something more traditional?"

Waylon hissed, in no mood to reason with the madman.

"Pants are more practical," he said. "In case you forgot, we are on the run." He paused, ran a hand through his hair. "The bathroom is free."

Eddie looked up at him and seemed to notice for the first time that Waylon was wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was wet, and a few droplets of water remained on his skin. Waylon couldn't read the look in Eddie's eyes, but then, when could he ever? Uncomfortable, he said, "You should get cleaned up."

"Mmm." Eddie set his sewing aside and stood up. Waylon instinctively backed away as Eddie rose to his full height, reminded yet again of just how big the man was. Eddie lingered a moment, raking his eyes over Waylon's body and causing him to shiver, his nipples pulling taut under the older man's gaze. Then Eddie smiled and strolled to the bathroom, humming as he went.

Eddie didn't bother to close the door, and Waylon moved to the other side of the room to put some distance between them. He stood by the window and nervously peered out past the edge of the curtain. The Jeep stood outside in its parking spot. Waylon could take the keys and go now. Would he make it out of the parking lot before Eddie dragged him out of the car and back to the room, he wondered? And what would be his punishment for such a betrayal? His mind shied away from the question, the memories of other punishments too raw to touch.

Waylon heard water splashing in the bathroom while Eddie sang a cheerful tune. After a while, when Eddie still hadn't come out, Waylon's steps took him to the bathroom door. He ducked inside. Eddie hadn't bothered using the curtain, and water was splashing all over the floor. Waylon barely noticed that, however, as his eyes were drawn inescapably to Eddie's muscular back, his broad shoulders, taut buttocks and strong legs. How had he kept in such good shape in the asylum? _Chasing his victims_ , Waylon's brain helpfully answered, and he cursed himself again. Hanging bodies swung in Waylon's mind's eye, and the worst thing was the rising tide of nausea wasn't nearly enough to douse his interest.

"See something you like?"

Waylon startled, forced his gaze upwards again. Eddie was watching him over his shoulder with a smile on his face. Waylon's cheeks burned. He hated being caught out, but the truth was… yes, he did. He shouldn't. By god and anything else that was holy, he shouldn't. But something had snapped inside him in the asylum, and now here he was in a mockery of a marriage to a man who would mutilate and kill him at the smallest provocation. Perhaps the attraction was merely a survival instinct on Waylon's part. _Yeah, that has to be it_ , he told himself, knowing as he did so he was lying.

As Eddie turned off the water and stepped out of the tub, Waylon grabbed the remaining towel off the rack, opened it out, and offered it. Eddie took it and tossed it aside. He advanced on Waylon, who backed up until he stumbled, his bare feet slipping on the wet floor. Eddie caught him, his hands like iron around Waylon's waist. He backed Waylon into the wall and kissed him.

"You're insatiable," Eddie murmured, sounding anything but unhappy about it. Waylon would have argued with him but his mouth was sealed with another consuming kiss. Eddie liked to kiss so deeply Waylon felt he was suffocating, drowning, his jaw pried open and his throat full of Eddie's tongue. Waylon's towel was swiftly undone and dropped to the floor. Eddie pressed his body against Waylon's, pinning him to the wall with his bulk. Waylon brought his hands up to Eddie's chest, but whether to push him away or simply to touch him, Waylon couldn't have said.

Eddie forced his thigh between Waylon's legs, and then grunted and pulled back abruptly. Waylon had begun to get hard, and Eddie had felt it. Waylon was roughly turned to face the wall, and then the hot, solid wall of Eddie's body was pressed against his back. Waylon wasn't entirely sure how Eddie really saw him, somewhere in that messed up head of his. He called him his wife and usually referred to him as a woman, but the truth was Waylon didn't look anything like a girl. He was slender, sure, but not particularly feminine. Eddie avoided touching his cock, and seemed to prefer to pretend it didn't exist. Waylon didn't dare broach the issue.

Waylon pressed his hands against the wall, trying to find some purchase so he wouldn't lose his balance as Eddie took hold of his hips and started to grind his erection in between Waylon's buttocks.

"That's it, darling," Eddie crooned. "That's what you want, isn't it? My, but you just can't get enough."

Waylon panted and pressed his eyes shut. Goddammit, but he _did_ want it. His whole body was crying out for it.

"Well, my love? Why don't you tell me?" Eddie's thumbs dug into Waylon's ass and pried it apart, exposing his hole. Waylon grit his teeth, fought back sobs.

He was so, so hard.

Eddie pressed the length of his body against him again and whispered directly into his ear, "Tell me what you want, love."

"I want you..." Waylon said in a hoarse whisper. "I want you to f-fuck me-"

"Tsk! What a filthy mouth you have. Where on Earth did you learn such foul fucking language?" There was a growl in Eddie's voice, just enough to send Waylon's stomach flipping in a crazy, frantic combination of excitement and terror. "I didn't marry a whore, did I?" Eddie's fingers dug harder into Waylon's flesh, enough to hurt. Waylon let out a whimper of frustrated, agonised longing.

"Wait!" Waylon twisted, managed to make eye contact over his shoulder. "Eddie, I meant… I meant, make love to me."

Eddie's whole face transformed, and he got the sappiest look in his eyes. Beaming, he said, " _There's_ my sweet, good girl." He stroked Waylon's hair, and then the next thing Waylon knew Eddie had gathered him up in his arms and was carrying him back into the bedroom. "We are on our honeymoon, after all."

He laid Waylon on the bed that still had all its covers, sweeping his sewing project onto the floor to make space. He stretched out beside him, ran one hand down Waylon's body to his hip, then around to his ass. Waylon, through the burning haze of his ill-gotten desire, knew he should divert Eddie's attention before he was rudely reminded of Waylon's vulgar, imperfect anatomy. He kissed him hard, and then pressed him to the mattress.

"Let me..." He made his way down Eddie's body, kissing still-damp skin here and there, suckling and teasing. "I can… I can make it so good for you..."

Eddie groaned, pressed his hands to his face and tilted his head back, seemingly overcome. Waylon bit one of his nipples, then soothed the bite with soft swipes of his tongue. Eddie's cock jutted impatiently against Waylon's belly, but Waylon took his sweet time reaching it. He let himself take a good look at it when he got to Eddie's hips. He licked at the crease of Eddie's hip, kneading his thighs with his hands, staring at the monstrous length his mouth was watering for.

"You don't have to do that, darling," Eddie breathed. When Waylon looked up, Eddie had propped himself up on his elbows and was staring down at Waylon with wonder and adoration in his eyes. Waylon licked his lower lip, and Eddie spread his legs. No matter what he said, he was offering himself for Waylon to eat up.

Waylon couldn't take another moment of that adoring gaze, so he closed his eyes and nuzzled Eddie's cock instead. He breathed in a deep lungful of the other man's scent. It was mostly the cheap soap from the shower, but underneath there was still something unique that was all Eddie, and which Waylon was fast becoming conditioned to respond to in certain, very particular ways. He moaned, even as he felt sick and disgusted with himself.

Eddie stroked Waylon's hair. Waylon kissed his way up Eddie's cock until he reached the tip, and then he opened wide and took him into his mouth. He felt Eddie shudder beneath him and enjoyed a brief, dizzying rush of power. Eddie was too big for Waylon to take all of him comfortably, but he gradually worked his way down, taking in a little more each time he slowly bobbed his head, his lips sealed tight around hot flesh that pulsated against his tongue. It was all too easy to forget the horror and the reality of the situation he was in when all he had to think about was the taste and weight of the cock in his mouth, the stretch of his lips, the ache in his jaw. He could let himself be totally absorbed in the mindless act, let his brain check out for a while and his body take over.

At some point Eddie stopped stroking Waylon's hair and took hold of it instead, grabbing two fistfuls and taking over the movement of Waylon's head. He forced more of his cock down Waylon's throat, until Waylon's eyes rolled back and he started to choke. Waylon was dimly aware of Eddie murmuring praise, cooing at him like a lovestruck fool, telling him he was such a _good_ girl…

Suddenly Waylon's world turned upside down – Eddie had rolled him over, so Waylon now lay on his back and Eddie was above him, his dick still buried in Waylon's mouth. Eddie didn't even pretend to be gentle any more. Waylon was almost grateful. If Eddie forced him, if he was rough and it hurt, then nobody could say Waylon chose it for himself. Nobody could place the blame on him… Eddie thrust into Waylon's mouth in shallow jerks, his whole body tensing and trembling as he grunted and snarled like a beast. His hands were tangled in Waylon's hair, his weight pressing down on him, suffocating him. Waylon didn't fight. He held onto the sheets and let Eddie have his way.

When Eddie came, he thrust in deeper than he had before, forcing Waylon to take all of his cock, right down to the root. Waylon couldn't breathe, but as he felt Eddie pulse inside him he found he almost didn't mind. Suffocating on Eddie's throbbing cock seemed a more merciful, if no less humiliating, death than what some of Eddie's other victims had suffered through. Eddie released deep into Waylon's throat, and then slowly pulled out and rolled off him, finally allowing Waylon to breathe. Waylon sucked in a few gulps of air and waited for the room to stop spinning. Suddenly he rolled to the side of the bed and retched, but nothing came up. It was probably just as well he hadn't eaten in a while.

He became aware of Eddie rubbing his back. He turned back to him, sitting up.

"I'm so sorry, darling," Eddie said breathlessly. He wiped Waylon's mouth with a corner of the sheet, and pushed Waylon's damp hair back from his brow. "You know that sometimes a man can't help himself, especially when faced with such… beauty. It's really us who are the weaker sex, my love, no matter what anyone says." He clicked his tongue and smiled ruefully.

"It's all right," Waylon heard himself say. His voice was hoarse and quiet. He licked his lips. Eddie's eyes gleamed as he watched that, and the next moment he leant in and stole another kiss. Surprisingly, this kiss was just a light peck, the most chaste Eddie had ever given him. It left Waylon strangely dissatisfied, and as Eddie moved back he chased after him. Eddie had come, but Waylon's body still thrummed with unfulfilled desire. He kissed Eddie's lips, bit one of them, pressed himself close against Eddie's body. Eddie chuckled, didn't seem to mind Waylon's hands all over him at all.

"Now, now," he soothed. "Aren't you eager? Give me a few minutes, darling, and I'll be ready to go again. I can give you what you need."

"Really?" Waylon raised an eyebrow. He'd placed Eddie somewhere in his forties if he had to guess. "Are you sure about that?"

Eddie growled. "Are you being bad, now?"

Waylon reached for him. "I just need..."

"Need what?" Eddie rolled on top of him. He didn't even seem to notice Waylon's erection pressed between them now. His body covered Waylon's completely, his weight pressed Waylon down into the mattress. His eyes looked darker from this angle, and Waylon stared up into them, feeling their bloodshot intensity pierce him to his soul.

"Need you," Waylon whispered.

Eddie licked his fingers and said, "Spread your legs." Waylon obeyed, and Eddie reached down between their bodies. As expected, he ignored Waylon's cock entirely, and reached between Waylon's legs to the waiting pucker of his anus. "Is this hungry for me?" Eddie murmured. Waylon nodded. He squeezed his eyes shut, turned his face away, but Eddie snapped, "Look at me." Waylon couldn't disobey. Eddie's eyes kept him pinned just as surely as his body kept him pinned to the bed. Eddie watched every minute expression flit across Waylon's face as the first of his fingers penetrated Waylon's entrance. Waylon cried out and tried to clutch onto Eddie. Eddie whispered soothing words and continued. Waylon should have been ashamed of the way his body opened up for him. He should have been ashamed of a lot of things, but he just didn't have room in his brain for shame right now. He bucked his hips upwards, wordlessly asking for more, more, more. Eddie added a second finger, gently stretching Waylon wider. It wasn't what Waylon wanted, not quite, but he would take what he could get until Eddie let him have his cock again.

Eddie rolled off him to lie beside him, allowing Waylon to spread his legs wider and Eddie to dig his fingers in even deeper. Eddie had thick, long fingers. Waylon looped his arms around Eddie's neck and pulled him down into a messy, wet kiss which Eddie quickly took control over.

As Eddie's thrusts got harder and deeper, he moved his kisses from Waylon's mouth to his neck, and Waylon tilted his head back to offer his throat. He wrapped a hand around his own cock and stroked, and as Eddie drove those thick fingers of his into Waylon again and again Waylon arched and panted, wanton and mindless, not a thought in his head beyond getting off. Eddie bit into Waylon's throat, and that was the moment Waylon came, screaming.

Eddie's arms were around him at once. He held him, soothed him, stroked him all over. Waylon shook in his embrace, ripples of stinging pleasure still racking him. Eddie was still shushing and caressing him when the pleasure haze receded and Waylon began to laugh. Eddie watched him in confusion, but Waylon laughed and laughed, because if he didn't laugh he would cry, and if he started crying again this time he would never stop.


	2. Giftwrapped

_Waylon was awoken by an almighty crashing. His instinct was to curl closer to the wall – the mattress that he and Eddie shared was pushed into a corner of one of the workrooms – but his aversion to being cornered drove him to his feet. Heart thudding, he peered into the darkness._

 _Another crash, followed by cursing. An inmate stumbled past a window, letting Waylon see misshapen features and wild eyes, arms outstretched as the man tried to navigate the maze of tables and craft equipment in the dark. He was breathing hard, and in a shaft of moonlight Waylon could see the gleam of blood across his face._

 _Waylon had fallen asleep curled up within the curve of Eddie's body, but he couldn't see him anywhere now._

 _Waylon must have moved, or made some small sound, because the stranger's head suddenly swung around and Waylon found himself pinned in his desperate gaze._

" _Help me!" the inmate whispered. He lurched toward Waylon, tripping and fumbling, making an unholy racket. Waylon backed away, moving away from the bed and keeping close to the wall, keeping one eye on the advancing patient whilst also trying to locate a weapon. The inmate looked frantically behind him but kept coming. "You have to help me, he's crazy!"_

" _You shouldn't have come here," Waylon said. He thought he could hear familiar footsteps now, footsteps that evoked a complicated reaction within him. Fear first, then something darker. "He doesn't like intruders."_

 _The inmate stared at him, blinking against the dark, and then his face twisted into a hideous mask of fury._

" _You're him, aren't you?" he sneered. "That maniac's whore?" He lunged at Waylon, managed to grab a fistful of the loose hand-sewn nightgown he slept in and pulled him close just as Eddie's silhouette appeared in the doorway._

" _Don't come any closer!" the fool called. He wrapped one arm around Waylon's neck, pressing his forearm against his windpipe. He backed away, taking Waylon with him. Eddie stood still and watched, head slightly tilted, a knife glinting in his hand. His eyes seemed to glow in the dark._

" _Don't come any closer, or I'll snap his neck."_

 _There was a moment Waylon thought it was finally the end for him – that he would be killed by this poor desperate fool and Eddie would move on at last to some other unwilling bride. He met the thought with something like acceptance. At least it would put an end to the nightmare._

 _Then Eddie began to laugh._

* * *

Waylon woke in the middle of the night with a start. The room was dark, and the only sound was Eddie's snoring. At first he was still in that same room at Mount Massive, the stink of his blood was in his nostrils, the looming shapes of Eddie's projects crowding in on him from all sides. Then he realised he was still half dreaming, and he was instead in a motel room just a few hours outside of Leadville. He still couldn't shake that sickly smell, though, and in the darkness the ordinary shapes of furniture became posed corpses draped in white, or else the crouching forms of bloodthirsty variants watching him, preparing to strike.

He closed his eyes, pressed his hands over them to block out the phantoms.

He didn't remember falling asleep. Eddie had held him throughout his fit of hysterical laughter, and at some point he must have tired himself out. It was the first time he had slept deeply since entering Mount Massive. It wasn't easy to get restful sleep when you were lying beside a man who might decide to castrate or kill you on a whim.

One could get used to almost anything, he supposed.

Feeling nauseous, he slipped out of Eddie's arms and headed into the bathroom. His head was pounding, the room was spinning. He only just managed to reach the bathroom before emptying the meagre contents of his stomach into the toilet. He managed to toe the door shut, and when he was done retching he sat curled on the floor and held his head in his hands and waited to stop shaking. His heart was going a mile a minute, and his stomach kept roiling despite being so empty he felt like he'd turned it inside out.

After a while he realised the thumping he heard was no longer his heart, but Eddie hammering on the door.

"Just… just a second," he croaked, but Eddie didn't seem to hear him because he switched from pounding on the door with his fists to ramming it, presumably with his shoulder. He would break the damn thing down. Waylon's breath stuttered, his heart seizing, and he instinctively looked around for an escape route – before realising that trying to flee from Eddie now would be just the thing that got him killed.

"Eddie, wait!" He forced himself to his feet, flushed the toilet, and approached the door. He opened it to find Eddie, red-faced, his eyes lit with the same deranged glaze they'd had in the asylum. "It wasn't even locked-"

Eddie barged into the room and wrapped his arms around Waylon in a crushing embrace.

"I thought you were trying to leave me!" Blessedly he didn't have a knife on him, but Waylon wasn't fool enough to think Eddie needed a blade if he decided he wanted to kill him. He tried to calm his frenetic heartbeat, without much success. "Darling, you're shaking. I'm sorry for frightening you. But you know I've had such heartbreak in the past-"

"Yes," Waylon said, suddenly incredibly weary. "I wasn't… leaving you. I woke up and I felt sick."

Eddie blinked at him, and then a sudden transformation overtook his face, his expression changing instantly to one of excited wonder. Waylon could have kicked himself.

"No- I mean. Not like that." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "I mean, we can't stay here."

"What's wrong?" Eddie tucked a strand of hair behind Waylon's ear. He was gentle now, his rage of a moment ago already forgotten.

"We can't stay here," Waylon repeated. "It's not safe. Murkoff will send someone-"

"Then we'll kill them."

"Or someone else will come. Fuck, Eddie, how long do you think it'll be before they catch up to us-"

"Language! You worry too much." Eddie gathered Waylon into his arms as easily as if Waylon weighed nothing. He might as well have done, he'd barely eaten since the chaos at the asylum had begun. He found he didn't have much appetite after the things he had seen. Rising to his feet and carrying Waylon back into the bedroom, Eddie cooed, "Just let me take care of all of that, my love. You just come back to bed."

"We have to move-"

"It's still early, and you need your rest. Especially in your condition."

Waylon groaned but gave up the fight, for now. Through the thin curtains he could see it was still pitch dark outside. He let Eddie carry him back to the little bed, laying his head on the lumpy pillow, and he didn't protest when he kissed him and then slowly kissed his way down his body until he reached Waylon's flat belly. Eddie smoothed his hands over it, his eyes full of warmth, and then placed a kiss just above Waylon's navel. He nudged Waylon's knees apart and settled between them, lying on his front. He cradled Waylon's waist in his hands, then laid his cheek against Waylon's stomach. He breathed in, and slowly let the air out in a dreamy sigh.

When Waylon realised Eddie had no intention of moving, he flung an arm over his eyes and gradually succumbed to his exhaustion once more, with the weight of Eddie's head on his abdomen and the gentle rhythm of Eddie's deep breaths lulling him back to sleep.

* * *

Eddie woke Waylon a few hours later, the sun already well on its way into the sky. He apologised for not having finished the dress he'd been sewing the night before, and Waylon pretended to be disappointed before fishing jeans and a t-shirt of his gym bag.

Eddie eyed the garments with a look of woe, then fished in his pants pocket and drew out a handful of crumpled silk and lace.

"If you insist on dressing like a tomboy, won't you at least put these on underneath?

"Where did you get those?" Waylon's face flushed. Torn between embarrassment and outrage, he made a grab for the delicate scraps of fabric held in Eddie's fist. Eddie laughed and let him take them. Upon closer inspection, they proved to be a set of panties and matching bralette in periwinkle silk with lace trim. Waylon knew them well, because they belonged to his wife. "You- When did you-" he sputtered. He threw the pieces onto the bed. "You swiped these from the house!"

Eddie smiled a self-congratulatory smile. "I would have taken more if you hadn't hurried us out of there so fast."

"These belong to my wife-"

"Your ex-wife," Eddie corrected. His smile was fading, and Waylon felt a touch of ice down his spine. "You're married to me now, remember?"

"Yes," Waylon said, deflating a little. He wet his lips. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the shimmering silk lingerie on the bed.

"I think they'd look lovely on you."

Waylon turned away, pinched the bridge of his nose. He realised he was pacing when Eddie caught him around the middle and swung him around and back onto the bed. He joined him there, straddling Waylon's hips and leering down at him.

"Won't you try them? For me?"

Waylon squirmed a little, only succeeding in rubbing himself up against the larger man, whose eyes brightened, his smile sharpening.

"Why don't _you_ try them?"

Eddie threw his head back and laughed, then climbed off him and said, "I think they'd look a damn sight better on you, my darling. Indulge me."

Waylon got off the bed, snatched up the knickers and put them on, scowling every moment as he did so. He didn't let himself think of Lisa, didn't let himself remember picking out this exact set for her years before. She hadn't worn them much, he recalled. They'd been too frilly and impractical for her, she preferred no-nonsense plain briefs, usually. They were a bit of an odd fit on Waylon, whose hips were narrower than Lisa's and his ass smaller, but they pulled tight across the front. He looked down at himself and grimaced. Swearing inwardly, he took up the bralette and struggled into it.

After a moment, he said, "You need to help me."

"Tsk. What do we say?"

" _Please_ can you help me?"

"Of course…" Suddenly Eddie was behind him. He ran his fingertips up Waylon's arms and shoulders, and dipped his head to press a kiss behind Waylon's ear. Then he took hold of the bralette's fastenings and fastened the hooks. It felt tight, and he was sure the shoulder straps would give him a headache. "Take a look in the mirror," Eddie said, his voice huskier than usual. He guided Waylon to the tall mirror mounted on one wall, and stood behind him as Waylon took in his reflection.

He looked utterly ridiculous. Neither garment fit him properly, the bra's cups were too loose and his cock made an unseemly bulge in the front of the delicate knickers. He blushed, was about to turn away, but Eddie's fingers tightened on his shoulders. He looked at Eddie's face in the mirror, only to blush all the deeper at the undisguised desire in the man's eyes.

"Oh… darling," he breathed. "You're a vision."

He turned Waylon around in his arms and kissed him. Despite Waylon's discomfort with the whole scenario, he felt heat coiling in his belly, and he pressed his body against Eddie's larger frame. Eddie hadn't bothered to dress yet, so it was easy for Waylon to reach between them and take his cock into his hand, stroking him gently with his palm.

"I should go get us some breakfast," Waylon murmured, when Eddie let him breathe.

"I think you look good enough to eat," said Eddie, and backed Waylon against the mirror. His hands slid down Waylon's sides until they reached his hips, where he kneaded for a bit before reaching around to Waylon's ass. He toyed with the ruched lace, rubbed his fingertips against the smooth silk. Then he pushed his fingers beneath the fabric to grip and knead Waylon's buttocks, right before lifting Waylon bodily, forcing Waylon to wrap his arms and legs around him with a yelp.

"Eddie…!"

"Mm?" Eddie kissed Waylon's neck, and pressed and ground his hips against Waylon's.

"Eddie!"

"What is it, my love?"

"…I'm hungry."

Eddie paused at last, gave a great, long-suffering sigh, and let Waylon down onto his feet again.

"I can't let my beloved go hungry," he said. He gave Waylon a heated kiss that left Waylon weak-kneed and dizzy, slumping against the mirror, and went to pick up his clothes. After a moment, Waylon got control of his higher brain functions again and bit his lip as he watched Eddie dress. That would never do. Eddie's outfit was the same one he'd worn in the asylum, stitched himself and stiff with old blood.

"I'll go," he blurted. Eddie froze. "You can't go out like that."

"Like…?"

 _Like an escaped mental patient_ , Waylon almost said, and fought down a rise of hysterical laughter.

"We need to find you new clothes," he said instead. Eddie didn't take his eyes off him as he slowly buttoned his shirt. Flustered, Waylon hurriedly donned his jeans and shirt over the top of the lingerie. Then he held out his hand, not quite daring to look Eddie in the eye. "Give me the car keys."

"Say please," Eddie said softly.

"Please, Eddie, can I have the car keys?"

Eddie looked at him hard and long, then retrieved the keys from the top of the cabinet behind him. He took his time crossing the distance between himself and Waylon, glancing at the table that still held Waylon's camera and laptop on the way. Then he dropped the keys into Waylon's hand.

They felt heavier than they were. Waylon's throat was dry, and it was a moment before he remembered to draw a breath.

Waylon turned to go, but Eddie grabbed his arm and spun him back before he could take a step. Waylon winced, anticipating pain, only to receive a kiss instead. There was something desperate about this one, with Eddie gripping his bicep hard enough to bruise and his lips pushing against Waylon's as though he couldn't breathe without him. At last he released him, and the look in his eyes was almost enough to break Waylon's heart.

He unlocked the door with shaking hands and made his way to the Jeep. Moving in a daze, he put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot.

There was a market a little ways down the street. He pulled in, parked, and shut off the engine. Then he sat there for a good ten minutes without moving.

He'd let him go. For what felt like the first time since he descended into Eddie's hell, Eddie had let him out of his sight. Waylon could start the car back up right now, drive, and never look back. How many miles could he put between him and Eddie before the sun went down?

He realised he was shaking. He felt faint.

Eddie had given him the keys and his blessing, had given him the key to his freedom and let him walk out.

And he'd done it because he knew Waylon wouldn't go.

The camera, the footage. He hadn't had time to upload the videos last night, and hadn't even booted up the computer yet this morning. Without that footage, Waylon had nothing – no leverage over Murkoff, nothing to threaten with, and no way to fight back. He couldn't leave it behind.

Which meant he couldn't leave Eddie behind.

Could he?

He got out of the car and onto legs that felt like jelly. As he walked to the supermarket entrance he did a quick count of the bills he'd brought with him. Sooner or later he was going to run out of cash, he realised. The bundle he'd taken from the house wasn't going to last forever. He had no cellphone, and god only knew what had happened to his cards – he'd had his wallet on him the day they'd thrown him into that cell, so it was likely still at Mount Massive, sitting in a locker somewhere with the rest of his confiscated things. He couldn't return to Lisa until things were finished with Murkoff, which meant he'd have to find a way to get by on his own.

Or, on his own with Eddie.

Forcing himself to take deep breaths, he grabbed a cart and moved into the supermarket. He walked with hunched shoulders, glancing furtively here and there, still not quite believing he was out in the world on his own, no deranged jailer tailing him from room to room singing praises and endearments that could turn to curses and threats at the drop of a hat. He threw food items into the cart barely looking at them, things he was fairly sure would travel well, along with a few packs of painkillers. He'd almost grown so used to pain that he barely noticed it any more — he was sore and aching in a dozen places on a good day — but if he was going to survive from now on he'd need all his wits about him, and it was hard to keep a clear head when all his senses were dulled by pain. Following that thought, he also tossed a roll of bandages and some antiseptic wipes into the cart for good measure.

Before heading to the register, he paused by one shelf, debated with himself, and then grabbed a bottle of lubricant and dropped it into the cart, his face turning red.

He felt like everyone's eyes were on him as he had the items rung up and handed over a few bills, was bouncing on the balls of his feet while the cashier helped bag everything, and he couldn't get out of the place fast enough. Crossing the parking lot, he nearly tripped over his own feet. He seemed to see threats in all directions, every shopper was a variant, every random pedestrian a Murkoff goon with a gun. He piled the groceries into the Jeep's passenger seat, bundled himself behind the wheel, and locked the doors. He sat there a moment with his eyes pressed closed, deliberately slowing his breathing while his knuckles turned white where he gripped the steering wheel.

He hadn't been anything like this before. He'd never been an easily frightened person, and he'd made it through the horrors of the asylum without freezing up or freaking out – if he'd done that, he never would have survived. So why couldn't he handle picking up a few things from a supermarket without having a panic attack?

Had his experiences really broken him that badly? He muttered a long string of curses, then took a deep breath and turned the key. He could freak out when the ordeal was over.

It didn't have to take long. He would upload the footage, make sure everyone saw it, and then Murkoff Corporation would be too busy dealing with the legal fallout of _that_ to bother coming after Waylon or his family any more. That was the hope, at least.

He supposed he couldn't rule out the possibility that they'd come for him for revenge anyway.

There was only one major hitch in his plan, and that was Eddie.

He glanced at the brown paper shopping bags on the passenger seat. The bottle of lube was poking out the top.

"I'm so fucking fucked," he muttered.

* * *

 _Sometimes the oppressive fog of madness that was ever-present in the asylum grew thicker, and Waylon felt the pressure in his skull and saw the visions before his eyes that told him the walrider was near._

 _If Waylon felt its presence, then Eddie was a slave to its maddening influence. Those were times when Waylon ran and hid again, when the strange truce between bride and groom was off the table and they were back to the deadly game of cat and mouse that constituted their courtship rituals. Waylon bent himself into knots under tables and stuffed into lockers, evading Eddie's prowling patrols, haunted by his sing-song calls and his malicious rages both._

 _When the walrider went on its way again, the repentant bridegroom would substitute taunts and insults with heartbroken pleas for his beloved to return to him. All would be forgiven, as long as his bride came back home._

 _And Waylon, broken down by the desperate hunt and his brain too scrambled by fear and dependence to see sense, would go trailing back. Eddie was filled with remorse, and Waylon the ever loyal, selfless spouse._

 _All was forgiven, and on they went._

* * *

As he parked up at the motel and headed back to the room Waylon felt like a prize sucker, throwing himself neck first onto the guillotine because he was just too damn stupid to know better.

When he was part way to the door, struggling with the bags, Eddie came out and took them from him, clucking over him like the attentive husband he pretended to be. Waylon was too stressed out to think much of it, and gratefully handed over the bags and locked the car behind him, before ushering the big man back inside. He cast one last look around the parking lot and the street beyond, unable to shake the creeping fear of being followed, then slammed the door shut and locked it. He would have barricaded it if he let himself. _Ridiculous_ , he thought. _What I should be barricading myself against is in here with me._

"You came back," Eddie said wonderingly. Waylon avoided meeting his eyes and went straight to the computer. Eddie paused by the door a moment, and then Waylon watched him in his peripheral vision setting the bags down on the top of the cabinet, then slowly and methodically emptying them out. While Waylon waited for the laptop to boot back up, he caught himself watching the movements of Eddie's back, muscles rippling beneath the patched white shirt. He hadn't bothered with the vest or gloves today, and had left his top shirt buttons undone, his sleeves rolled up.

"Of course I came back," Waylon muttered, wrenching his gaze back to the screen, his fingers skittering across the keyboard. As he was double-checking the connection to the camera, Eddie finished with the bags and crossed the room in a couple of big strides to bring his hands down onto Waylon's shoulders. Waylon tensed. Eddie's fingers were very close to his throat.

"You came back..." Eddie massaged Waylon's shoulders, the touch equal parts possessive and affectionate.

 _I had no choice_ , Waylon thought, at least some part of him believing it.

Out loud, he said, "I couldn't leave you."

"Let me make you something to eat," Eddie said, stroking Waylon's hair now. He nodded toward the laptop screen. "That can wait until after."

He went back to the groceries, which he had set out in neat lines that seemed at odds with everything Waylon knew about him. Waylon sighed and pushed the computer away for now. He hadn't missed the edge of command in Eddie's voice, and Waylon was enjoying this period of Eddie being gentle and attentive. It wouldn't last long, but Waylon could take advantage of the reprieve while it did.

Waylon had been in a panic when he'd been shopping, and they had no way to cook anything, so breakfast was granola bars and fruit. They munched in silence, sitting across from each other, knees touching. It was… companionable.

When the gnawing ache of hunger no longer plagued him, Waylon reached for the laptop again with every intention of finishing this business once and for all.

Eddie had other plans. He caught Waylon's wrist as he was reaching out and pulled him effortlessly into his lap.

"Come here," he said. His arms closed around Waylon like a trap. "I was afraid you wouldn't come back..."

"I know, Eddie, I know. But look, I did." He wrapped his arms around Eddie's thick neck, let the big man nuzzle him. "I came back. I came back to you..."

Eddie's hold on him tightened, and for a moment Waylon was afraid he'd squeeze him, quite literally crush him in his embrace, but then his hands were reaching beneath Waylon's shirt and tugging the fabric up and over Waylon's head.

Eddie teased the shoulder strap of the silken bra Waylon still had on. Waylon had been acutely aware of the damn thing all morning. It was tight, and its straps seemed to be cutting off the blood flow to his arms. Eddie liked it, though. He massaged Waylon's chest, thumb rubbing against the smooth silk and working Waylon's nipple to a point. Waylon pushed his face against Eddie's neck.

"I saw you picked something else up while you were out," Eddie said softly. "You little minx."

"I..." _Oh, shit._

"Turn around."

Waylon slid off his lap and turned around like a good, obedient little wife. Eddie rose up behind him, grabbed his hair, and pressed him down against the tabletop. His hips pressed up against Waylon's ass, the hard ridge of Eddie's cock pushing insistently against him. Waylon reached down to unfasten his fly before Eddie could get frustrated at it, and Eddie tugged the jeans off Waylon's hips and down his thighs. Eddie rubbed Waylon's lower back as he took in the sight of the younger man in his lacy knickers, his ass upturned.

"Such a gift, and so beautifully wrapped." He massaged Waylon's buttocks, then hooked his fingers under the lace and pulled the knickers taut in between them, making Waylon squirm. "And all for me. I almost don't want to unwrap you."

Then, to Waylon's surprise, Eddie sank into a crouch behind him and jerked Waylon's panties to the side with a crooked finger. He gasped at the first touch of Eddie's tongue against his asshole. It was warm and wet, soft, way too good. He sank down lower, pillowing his cheek on his arms and lifting his hips up.

Eddie pressed his face between Waylon's buttocks, purring low in his chest as he did so, and laved his tongue back and forth over Waylon's entrance. His hands held Waylon's hips, kept him in place. Waylon's face felt burning hot. His feet slid further apart and he pushed his hips back, pressing his ass onto Eddie's face, his adoring tongue. His cock hardened and strained against its confines of silk and lace. Grunting, Waylon reached down and readjusted himself so the tip of his erection peeked out the top of the panties, precum already making the silk damp. He swore under his breath, Eddie still eating at him with an ardour that never failed to take Waylon by surprise.

He didn't think anyone had ever wanted him quite this badly — not with this level of fevered intensity.

Eddie gave Waylon's asshole a last smacking kiss, then stood up and gave his upturned rump a slap. "Get the bottle," he said, moving away toward the bed. "And come here."

Waylon pushed his jeans the rest of the way down and stepped out of them. On shaky legs, he retrieved the bottle of lubricant from the top of the cabinet, and then joined Eddie by the bed. Eddie took the bottle from him and kissed him, running his free hand down Waylon's back. He cupped and squeezed Waylon's backside, then dug his fingers in between his buttocks to rub at his much-abused, spit-slick entrance. Then he turned Waylon around again, this time pushing him onto all fours on the bed and coming to kneel behind him. He ran his hands up Waylon's thighs, parted his cleft with his thumbs, leaned in and pressed another wet kiss against Waylon's hole.

"Let's see now," he purred. There was a click, and then Waylon gave a little flinch when he felt something cold and wet drip against his sensitive skin. Eddie pressed one slicked up finger into Waylon's ass slowly, then a second, pushing more of the slippery stuff inside him. He laughed, leaned in closer, and added yet more. "Well, isn't that something? Look at you… Oh, but you're _dripping_."

"H-hurry up," Waylon said breathlessly. He grabbed a pillow and pressed his face into it.

"I know, I know you need it. Oh, you're so wet…" Eddie said wonderingly as he continued to thrust his fingers in and out of Waylon's body. The lubricant eased the way significantly, and Eddie hadn't stinted on using it. Waylon could feel the stuff dripping down his thighs. He muffled his gasps and whimpers in the pillow as Eddie opened him up, played with him, stretched him wide. Then Eddie growled and could restrain himself no longer. Waylon felt the thick tip of his cock push at his entrance. He slid back and forth between Waylon's buttocks for a few seconds first, and then pushed his way inside at last. Groaning, he sank all the way in in one determined plunge. He leant forward, set his hands on Waylon's shoulders, and started thrusting.

Waylon squirmed beneath him. Eddie's cock speared him thoroughly, hammering against his prostate on each in-stroke. Waylon lifted his hips up for more, but it already felt like too much. He felt a rising panic in the pit of his stomach, blood rushing and roaring in his ears. He was shaking like a leaf, dry sobs escaping from his throat.

With a sinking feeling, Waylon realised what the problem was — it didn't hurt.

Eddie's thick fingers wound into his hair and forced his head up, forced him to meet Eddie's eyes. "What's wrong, my love?" he asked.

Waylon's breath caught as Eddie kept moving inside him. He was so deep, so big, but it was so smooth. He glided in and out of Waylon's body as though they were made to fit one another, and all Waylon felt was honeyed pleasure and a sweet, sweet slide.

It was all wrong. So, so wrong.

It was suddenly hard to breathe, and tears threatened, pricking the backs of his eyes. He tried to look everywhere except at Eddie's face, but Eddie wasn't going to allow it. He gave Waylon's head a little shake, and said, more firmly now, "Darling, what's wrong?"

"N-nothing," he stammered. "I, I- I don't know, it's just s-so much…"

"Mmm." Eddie pulled him up higher and wrapped an arm around his chest, crushing him against his body. His cock seemed to slide even deeper, and Waylon appalled himself once again by winding his hips and grinding down on that thick, throbbing length. He didn't know what was happening. His breath came in great gulping gasps, and there was a pressure on his chest that even Eddie's iron grip couldn't explain. "I know it is, my love, but you can take it." He let go of Waylon's hair and wrapped his hand around his throat instead. Waylon arched against him, his body bowing prettily and his cock bouncing with every motion of Eddie's hips.

He came without even needing to touch his cock. Eddie growled into his ear as Waylon shuddered and sobbed through his climax, then flung Waylon back down onto the bed and covered him with his body. He caught both Waylon's wrists in his hands, held them above Waylon's head hard enough to leave bruises, and pounded away at Waylon's ass until with a few particularly hard, deep jabs of his hips he pumped his hot come deep within Waylon's body.

Afterwards they lay in a sweaty tangle on the bed, limbs all entwined. Waylon wasn't anxious any longer, he was too tired for that. He felt like his body was made of lead, he was utterly sapped of all strength.

Eddie seemed almost as drained as Waylon. Lying against Waylon's back, he snuggled closer without opening his eyes. He nuzzled the sharp corner of Waylon's jaw, stroked the curve of his shoulder, the jutting bones of his hips. "So beautiful," he murmured drowsily. His hand flattened against Waylon's belly. Pressed up close like this, sharing warmth, it was easy for Waylon to drift into uneasy sleep, and maybe he did for a few minutes, but he snapped wide awake when Eddie's hand slipped lower to rub at Waylon's cock through his silken underwear. He held himself very still. Eddie nuzzled into the back of Waylon's neck, his body curled around Waylon's close enough for Waylon to feel the hard line of his erection pressing into his lower back.

How was he hard again already? For a moment Waylon wondered crazily if the procedures that had given Eddie and the other variants their enhanced strength had also enhanced other things too.

He bit his lip to keep himself silent, squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to respond to the dangerous touch. His body was ever a traitor, though – Eddie's hands were large and warm, and with one rubbing and stroking his prick while the other teased his chest, it wasn't long before Waylon started getting hard. His heart fluttered in panic as Eddie's hand slipped beneath the waistband of his knickers.

 _Please don't wake up_ , he prayed. _Please_.

Eddie purred behind him, a deep rumbling moan that seemed to vibrate from his chest straight into Waylon's body. He fondled Waylon's prick for a few moments, but then his hand and arm went slack, and his purr transformed into a loud snore. Waylon let out the breath he had been holding and turned his face into the pillow.

Despite his exhaustion, it was still fairly early in the day, and the sounds of the world outside filtered through the window along with bright sunlight. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day. Waylon lay motionless and watched clouds float across a blue sky while Eddie snuggled against his back.

He let himself drift like that for a little while, relaxing in spite of himself. The beast slept, and Waylon's body was satiated and weary in the way only a good hard fuck could do. He acknowledged the peculiar sense of contentment that came over him without quite analysing it. It was enough to just grab a few moments of rest.

Eventually he did extricate himself from Eddie — not easy since the big man held him tightly, one muscular leg slung over Waylon's hips — and forced himself to return to the table, start up the computer yet again. Robbed of Waylon's warm body to curl around, Eddie rolled onto his front but otherwise didn't stir.

He couldn't keep letting Eddie distract him. While Eddie dozed, he set the transfer going, making himself sick all over again reviewing some of the tapes. There was footage of the first night he had run into Eddie, herded into his domain like a sacrificial lamb. The footage cut off after a while. He hadn't recorded anything between that night and the night they escaped. His mind boggled when he looked at the time stamps on the clips — had it really been that long? It all felt like a hideous dream, instant and endless at the same time. Of course, the proof was right there on the screen… and snoring face-down in the bed with the sheets tangled around his massive, all too real body.

As the files made their slow way through the cable and onto the harddisk, he sat back in the chair and took some deep breaths, trying to will some life into his aching body. Then, snarling, he tore the bralette off and threw it to the floor, swiftly followed by the damp, come-stained panties. He ought to take a shower, really – he could feel a mixture of lubricant and come slowly dripping out of him. He fished around in his gym bag until he found a pair of loose sweatpants and put those on instead. He felt a little better, but not much. He still felt Eddie's hands and mouth on him, still felt him inside him. He squirmed in the chair, tensing his internal muscles, shivering to feel the deep, warm ache of that body memory.

That had been the worst time for a long time.

It should have been better, he thought, with something to ease the way. But then again, maybe that was just the problem. It _shouldn't_ be easy.

He looked over to where Eddie lay, pursed his lips at the complicated emotions arising in his chest when he looked at him. No one would ever understand, he supposed; he didn't understand it all himself, but he'd had to rely on Eddie for survival for a good while there — on his strength and viciousness, on his mercurial moods swinging in the right direction, on the fear he struck into the other beasts that prowled the grounds of the asylum. Like it or not, he'd come to depend on him. He would have to break that dependence if he wanted to keep his sanity at all. There was a normal life waiting for him on the other side of all this, he just had to keep believing that. The moment he lost sight of that would be the moment he lost his mind.

Eddie finally roused himself, and Waylon watched him approach, naked as a babe and utterly without shame. His body was a patchwork of burns, scars, and scabs, bruises here and there turning his skin yellow and blue. Despite all that, the play of muscles beneath his skin was near mesmerising. Whatever horrors he'd been through hadn't sapped his strength, at least not physically. Waylon bit his lip and turned away.

"We should get moving," he said after a moment. Eddie stood behind him and played with his hair, humming softly to himself. "The wifi here is pretty shitty, I should try to get somewhere better before I try uploading the footage."

"Ah yes, your little camera," Eddie said. He reached for it and lifted it up, turning it so he could view the screen. Waylon made a half-hearted grab for it, but Eddie held it out of his reach. Waylon didn't _think_ Eddie could accidentally delete the lot, but there was still a seed of anxiety in his belly as he watched him fumble with the buttons and start playback. "Can't go anywhere without this, can you? What naughty things have you been filming…?" His brow furrowed as the video played on, a look of confusion and disgust taking over his face. "Why do you have such… _filth_ on here, my love?"

Waylon held out his hand for the camera. "Never mind that," he said, keeping his voice soft. "I told you how awful it was before I found you. I filmed it so I can show everyone else how bad it was in there, so the people responsible can be held accountable."

"I don't like you having this," Eddie said, still watching the playback. Waylon wondered which part of the gruesome tale Eddie was watching now. He wondered how he would react to seeing his own wild eyes staring down the camera as he hunted Waylon like an animal. Would he even make the connection between his experience of the chase and the terror Waylon had been put through? Would he even care? "It's not… suitable for a lady."

"It's necessary," Waylon said. He watched Eddie's face closely. "Don't you want them punished? You weren't treated any better than the other patients at that place. Hell, you probably suffered worse than half of those poor bastards. You're just going to let them get away with it?"

Waylon reached for the camera again, but Eddie didn't seem to notice. His brow was still wrinkled in thought, and Waylon thought he saw a glimmer of something stirring deep within his eyes.

"Well?"

"What the fuck do you know about it?" Eddie grunted. Too late, Waylon realised it wasn't indecision that was making Eddie frown, but shame. His face was flushed, and his shoulders drawn up in an unconscious move to make himself bigger and more imposing. Not that he needed any help in that department.

Waylon swallowed and kept his eyes down.

"Nothing," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

"You think you know anything because you run around with this little toy," Eddie said, gesticulating with the camera. Waylon watched it nervously. It was still connected to the laptop via a cable. Stupid, stupid… He cast a quick glance at the computer screen. The progress bar was still crawling along. Eddie's grip tightened on the camera, and Waylon heard the plastic start to creak under the pressure. "Snooping into other people's private business, sticking your nose in places it doesn't belong? You think you know the slightest fucking thing about anything?" Waylon's skin broke out into goosebumps, he was going hot and cold all over. The worst part was Eddie wasn't even yelling. His voice was still the soft, melodious tone he had used when trying to lull Waylon into letting him catch him. Waylon would have preferred screaming. He tried to keep his gaze downcast, but with Eddie waving the camera around he just couldn't keep his eyes off it. Somehow it was more important to him to protect the camera, and the videos it contained, than to guard his own life.

 _I don't care what happens to me,_ he thought. _I honestly don't fucking care, just please let me take those Murkoff fucks down with me_.

He could salvage the SD card, he supposed, and take the files straight from that. If he'd been thinking straight he would have done that straight away, but he'd been operating with such a fog in his mind ever since he woke up in that chair. That night felt a hundred years ago now. He truly didn't feel like the same person who had sent that email to Upshur thinking he could really make a difference, thinking he could do something good.

He racked his brain for a way to manipulate Eddie into calming down, but panic robbed him of the ability to plan. His rational mind was rapidly fragmenting, pulled apart and washed away like wet paper leaving only blind instinct in its stead. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he rose from the chair and made a grab for the camera. His hand closed on it, and Eddie's other hand closed on his throat. Eddie slammed him down onto the table on his back, blessedly missing the laptop but forcing the air out of Waylon's lungs. He leaned down, his face inches from Waylon's, his eyes dark and his lips drawn back in a snarl. Waylon didn't let go of the camera, though. Instead of cowering away from Eddie's aggression, he bared his teeth right back, and then somehow managed to draw his leg up enough to put some power behind it, and kicked Eddie in the groin.

Eddie reared back like a struck animal, spitting and snarling. Waylon rolled off the table and onto his feet just in time to miss the swing of Eddie's fists. He didn't get far, as Eddie grabbed him by the hair and threw him to the ground. He lost his grip on the camera, dropping it as he tumbled first into the chair and then to the floor. He swore, eyes watering in pain, and frantically crawled away from Eddie's towering form. In a rage, Eddie seemed bigger than any man had any right to be. He filled the little motel room, towering like a hurricane and bearing down on Waylon with the promise of visiting just as much destruction upon him.

"Wait!" Waylon cried, throwing up his hands. He tried to scoot further backward as Eddie advanced on him. His frantic mind grabbed onto the first thought that crystallised in a flash of pure panic. "The baby! Eddie, don't hurt the baby!"

Eddie paused, and for a moment the glacial fury in his eyes faded, uncertainty shining through in its place. The predator backed off, but only a little. He still approached, but slower now.

"The baby…?"

"R-remember?" Waylon held himself still despite the tension that threatened to burst his body apart at any moment. He was shaking with the effort of it. He couldn't run away. If he tried to run again now, Eddie would chase on instinct, and this time he was afraid he'd go for the kill. Very slowly, he brought one hand to his belly. At any other time he would have laughed at the ridiculous pantomime, but he made himself remain deadly serious. The suicidal urge to laugh was lurking frighteningly close, just under the surface of his mind. "You don't want to hurt it."

"Don't… don't tell me what I want," Eddie muttered, but some of the aggression had gone out of his posture. Bit by bit, moving stiffly like a man waking from a dream, he sank to one knee. "The baby… of course…" Hesitantly, he reached out toward Waylon. Waylon swallowed, took a breath, and then took the offered hand — the same hand that had just been around his throat. Eddie pulled him into his arms and held him. His hands were trembling, Waylon realised. He kissed Waylon's hair, then his brow and cheeks. Then he looked down between them. With a light, shaky voice he said, "I'm sorry for hurting you, darling. Is the little one…?"

"It's all right. I- We're all right." Waylon suffered to be kissed and petted a while longer, and then gently coaxed Eddie back to his feet. Waylon went to turn and retrieve the camera from where it had fallen, but as soon as he put weight on his right leg, it went from under him, and he stumbled. Eddie caught him at once, and then he righted the toppled chair and guided Waylon into it.

Waylon grimaced. He must have bashed his weak leg on the chair when Eddie threw him before. He'd injured the leg running from Eddie in the asylum, and still counted his lucky stars he hadn't broken it. It had nearly killed him all the same. He'd bandaged it roughly as best he could at the time, but he'd still come down with a fever and been laid low for days. He'd lain on a dirty mattress in one of Eddie's less horrifying chambers, delirious and helpless as Eddie stroked his hair back from his face and laid cool, wet cloths upon his brow. His memory of that period was patchy at best, as he'd been sliding in and out of consciousness, but in the parts he did remember Eddie had played the part of the solicitous, doting lover well. Waylon would have owed him his life, if the injury hadn't been Eddie's fault in the first place.

He had recovered, and had in time been able to put weight on the leg again, even run on it before leaving the asylum, but it still wasn't completely healed. Perhaps it never would be, he had no idea. All he knew was that it was hurting more than usual now, pain flaring up and down his leg like fire.

"What is it, darling? Is it your leg again?"Eddie was on his knees again, already lifting Waylon's foot and pushing up his sweatpants to inspect the site of the wound.

"Just… I just hit it. Eddie, I got some bandages from the store, could you-"

"Of course," Eddie interrupted, rising at once and retrieving the roll of bandages. He came back and settled on his knees again, taking Waylon's foot in his hands with a gentleness that had seemed impossible but a moment ago.

"Probably just needs strapping up for a while, I just… knocked it when I fell…"

Eddie was already wrapping the long strip of soft cloth around Waylon's foot and lower leg, tight without cutting off blood flow, around and around with painstaking care. His expression was intent, his eyes devoid of his earlier fury but harder to read for its lack. His fingers were soft and careful where they touched Waylon's skin. Waylon allowed himself to take a deeper breath, and sank into the chair as his heart rate slowed back down. He'd muzzled the monster, for now.

"There," Eddie announced at last, finishing by tying off the ends of the bandage tightly and pressing a kiss to Waylon's ankle. "All done."

Waylon managed a weak smile, and flexed his ankle experimentally. It was bound tight, and he couldn't move it much.

"Thanks. Help me up?"

Eddie lent Waylon his arm and Waylon rose, then tried putting his weight on the bound leg. He felt a twinge of pain, but he thought it was better than before.

He realised Eddie was watching him with wide, searching eyes. He placed a hand over Eddie's and patted it reassuringly.

"You did a great job, it feels much better," he said.

"Does this mean I'm forgiven?" Eddie asked, stroking Waylon's face. Waylon thought this had been a pretty mild outburst, all things considered, but the look of contrition on Eddie's ruined face seemed genuine enough. He slipped back and forth between the lover and the killer, and sometimes the overlap between the two of them was too blurred for Waylon to tell who he was talking to. His touch was gentle now, though, so Waylon nodded. Eddie's face lit up in a smile, and he pulled Waylon into another crushing hug. He rested his cheek atop Waylon's head and babbled as he rocked him back and forth: "I'll be better for you, my darling, I promise. I can be the man you need me to be, and a good father for our little one. You'll see, you'll see. I'll be the husband you deserve."

* * *

 _Other inmates found their way into Eddie and Waylon's territory from time to time. Sometimes they were sent on down by Denis upstairs, other times they found their own way there, stumbling into Eddie's lair in a search for food, perhaps, or else fleeing from one of Mount Massive's many other monsters and not realising the mistake they'd made until it was already too late._

 _The last time Waylon had found himself face to face with such an unfortunate creature was only days before they made their escape, and Eddie had been working on some unspeakable project in one of his work rooms. Waylon had wanted nothing to do with it, so had begged off to go get some air instead. Eddie knew by then that he wouldn't go far, so gave him his blessing with a sing-song voice, hardly looking up from his "work". Waylon had wandered out into the courtyard, turned his face up to the sky, and enjoyed a rare moment of solitude, the sun on his face making him feel like a real person for the first time in he didn't know how long._

 _It was short-lived. He heard a rustling, and looked over to find himself staring straight into the mismatched, bloodshot eyes of a skinny variant dressed in rags, livid red scabs covering half his face proof of having been on the losing end of a battle with the Morphogenic Engine._

 _Waylon didn't even feel fear as he turned to face him. The inmate was barely even a human any more, made desperate by hunger and terror, forced to become something less than a person. It was in some ways a worse humiliation than what Waylon suffered daily. Waylon pitied him._

" _There isn't anything for you here," Waylon said boldly._

" _Not so sure about that," the creature said as he shambled towards Waylon. His face split in a yellow-toothed grin, his eyes rolling lasciviously, until he got close enough to get a good look at Waylon's face, his bleached hair grown just a little too long, the diaphanous white rags he was draped in._

" _Oh, shit," he mumbled. His attitude changed completely in an instant. He stumbled away from Waylon now, he couldn't get away from him fast enough. He tripped and fell in his frantic haste to put distance between himself and the slim man dressed all in white. "I know who you are. You're him! Oh god, get away from me! I was never here, I never touched you. You're the monster's bride!"_


	3. Devotion

" _It's time to go, darling."_

" _What? Go? Go where?"_

 _Eddie took Waylon by the wrist and started to lead him briskly past the rows of sewing machines and benches, through the work rooms and into the gym where the decomposing bodies of Waylon's predecessors still swung. Waylon dragged his heels, he hated even going_ near _that part of the complex, but trying to slow Eddie down when he was in full stride was like trying to stop a truck with your bare hands. His long strides pulled Waylon onward, forcing Waylon to jog or risk tripping. He kept his eyes squarely on Eddie's back and refused to look up, but the shadows alone were enough to close a hand of panic around his throat. Eddie must have sensed him balk, because he gave Waylon's arm a sharp tug, nearly pulling Waylon off his feet._

 _On the other side of the gym was a corridor, at the end of which was a door Waylon had never been through. When they reached it, Eddie let go of Waylon only long enough to unlock it._

" _Eddie, what's going on?" Waylon began to say, but Eddie glanced past him with a distracted air, then clamped his hand over Waylon's mouth and bundled him through the door. Waylon struggled on instinct and bit down on Eddie's hand. He threw himself this way and that but Eddie held him against his body in an unbreakable grip._

" _This isn't the time for those games, my love," Eddie said, voice low. "Delightful as they are, right now I need you to behave."_

 _Waylon stilled and Eddie lifted his hand away. Waylon was about to ask again just what was going on, when he heard it — the sound of gunshots, back the way they had come. His head snapped around in the direction of the noise, then he met Eddie's gaze. Eddie pressed his lips together, a look of worry on his face that instilled more fear in Waylon than the gunshots alone had._

 _In an instant, he put it together. Murkoff were cleaning up the mess they'd made._

" _Not without my camera," Waylon said, and darted away from Eddie, back into the heart of the Vocational Block._

" _Darling, wait!" Eddie cried, something that could have been genuine panic in his voice. "Come back! I can't protect you if you run away from me!"_

* * *

Despite Eddie's complaints, Waylon managed to coax and cajole him into agreeing to leave that afternoon rather than staying another night. Waylon still didn't have a concrete plan of where to go, but he was so eager to put more miles between himself and the asylum that the direction hardly mattered. Eddie expressed concern about Waylon driving with his bandaged leg, but Waylon assured him he'd be fine.

Once again, Waylon drove until black spots of exhaustion swam before his eyes, pushing himself further than he could really manage because stopping would mean another night of Eddie's amorous advances, which he continued to feel more and more confused about. The longer he could put off thinking about it at all the better.

As they drove, Eddie tried to engage Waylon in conversation.

"I want to get to know you, darling," he insisted. "We'll spend the rest of our lives together, we should know each other, inside and out."

Waylon glanced at him and then resolved to keep his eyes on the road. "If we're spending the rest of our lives together, then what's the hurry?"

"What do you mean _if_?"

"Just a figure of speech." He drew in a breath and let it out in a slow sigh, trying to will some of the tension out of his shoulders. Even though he didn't look directly at him, he was aware of Eddie's eyes on him, his stare intent and unblinking. "All right," he said at last. "You go first. Why don't you tell me about your childhood?"

When Eddie didn't answer, Waylon risked another glance. Eddie's eyes were narrowed, his whole face pinched up like he was sucking on a lemon. Waylon bit back the spiteful urge to laugh.

"Do you think it's becoming to mock me, darling? It's common, and it's beneath you."

"I'm not mocking you," Waylon said. "All right, you don't want to talk about your childhood. You ask me something, then. What do you want to know?"

"Everything," Eddie breathed.

With a sigh, Waylon began, "Well, I guess I don't really know where to start. I'm an only child, I grew up not too far from Denver, in a nice little suburb. Nothing special. Mom worked in an office in the city, Dad left when I was a kid but Mom eventually married a guy, Alan. He was a decent enough step-father. Taught me to fish. Never had that much in common with him, I was more into computers than the outdoors, but we got on well enough. We still do, they're still together. They moved to another city a few years back, though."

"Your father left you?"

"Yeah. I was too young to have much of an opinion about it, though. I don't remember a lot about him. Mom never liked to talk about him much. I think he got sick of the whole parenting thing. I was a sickly kid when I was little, always missing school for something. I think that's why I pushed myself harder as I got older, studying so much to make up for lost time."

Waylon watched Eddie out of the corner of his eye. He remembered bits and pieces from the various papers he'd found during his ordeal — all of them left behind in the asylum now, forgotten in the rush to get away — relating specifically to Eddie's family life. There'd been something about pictures.

 _What an idiot,_ he told himself. _Of course he doesn't want to talk about his fucking childhood._

Reluctant to let Eddie dwell on that topic for long, Waylon filled the silence with his own babble. "Apart from that," he said, "life's all been pretty… normal. At least, until I took the job at Mount Massive-"

"What exactly did you do there?" Eddie asked, and Waylon suddenly realised the new danger he'd inadvertently stumbled into. Eddie wasn't looking at him any more. He was watching the scenery roll past, but there was a crackling tension in the car Waylon hadn't felt a moment ago.

"I kept their computer systems running," he hedged. He couldn't tell him he'd been responsible for maintaining the Engine itself. Guilt sat like a lead weight in the bottom of his stomach. "I wasn't there for long, it was only a two week contract. I wasn't supposed to be there long, anyway."

Waylon was afraid Eddie would push him for more details, but he fell silent. Their first encounter on that night, the night everything started to go crazy, was a memory the both of them probably preferred to stay away from.

Although, he supposed, things had been crazy for Eddie since long before that night. How many times had he been forced into that awful machine before Waylon even set eyes on him? Enough times to be so afraid of it he'd beg a stranger to save him. Waylon knew how fucking proud Eddie was, and he remembered, too, the look in his eyes as he'd pressed his face up against the glass. He'd been out of his mind with terror — as opposed to Eddie on a regular day, when he was just out of his mind.

Eddie's brow furrowed though. "When I met you, you were dressed like all the others. You weren't a patient?"

Waylon took a slow breath, stalling for time. He took one hand off the wheel to push his hair back from his face. "Not at first I wasn't," he admitted. "I didn't know what I was getting into when I took the contract. They didn't tell me much, and forbid me from talking about the work with anyone else. It was only when I'd been there a little while that I realised just what the fuck was going on there. I still don't really know the whole of it, but I know it was fucking evil."

"Darling, your language is getting worse and worse," Eddie remarked. "You sound like a common dockside whore."

"Sorry. Anyway, um. I guess I didn't know what else to do, so I sent an email to a journalist I knew, tried to tell him what was going on, or at least that someone should come and investigate. They found out, took me prisoner. I don't… I don't know how long they had me in there, subjected to their 'therapy'. I don't remember hardly anything about it, but when I woke up everything had gone to shit, and that monster was loose, tearing people apart…"

Eddie was silent for a long while, so long Waylon thought he had lost interest in the conversation entirely. At length, however, he said quietly, "I thought I dreamed you."

With a sudden intake of breath, Waylon tightened his hold on the steering wheel. Little icy needles prickled all over his skin. He eased off the gas a little. He didn't dare look at Eddie now, he was too afraid to see the manic shine in his eyes Waylon was all too familiar with.

"I knew… I knew I'd seen your face somewhere," Eddie said slowly, as though having difficulty wading through the confused swamp of his thoughts. "But you weren't from there, I had that right. Not one of those demons… No, someone like you could never have come from a terrible place like that. You would have been tainted…"

Impulsively, Waylon reached out and took Eddie's hand in his. Eddie looked down at it in surprise, and Waylon squeezed.

"I didn't know how to tell you," he said. That much, at least, was true. How do you tell a man that you stood by and let him be tortured, even when he begged you for help? It didn't even matter what kind of a man Eddie was, not in this situation. "I… I did what I could. I did what I thought was the right thing, to make it all stop. It wasn't enough, I know that, but I need you to know that I tried to stop it."

After a moment, Eddie squeezed Waylon's hand back.

"You tried to save me," he said softly. "No, you _did_ save me." He pulled Waylon's hand up and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "You're like an angel," he murmured. "I knew it… I just knew there was something special about you, from the moment I saw you."

"I just wish I'd done more, or sooner," Waylon said. He was hugely relieved Eddie hadn't reacted violently to this revelation, but he had a sneaking feeling the topic might come up again later, in one of Eddie's less cooperative moods. "I'm no angel, just… just a guy who tried to do the right thing." _And had it blow up in his face_ , he mentally added. "All too little too late, but I can't change it now."

Eddie didn't let go of Waylon's hand for a long time.

* * *

They were on a long stretch of deserted road, trees rising on sloped banks to either side, when Waylon became aware of Eddie twisting in his seat and looking behind every now and then. It was late into the night — Waylon should really have pulled in somewhere a couple of hours ago, but he was being stubborn and forcing himself to continue until he risked falling asleep at the wheel. When he noticed Eddie's distraction, he looked in the rear-view to see a pair of headlights some distance back. There were no other vehicles within sight.

"Something wrong?" he said.

"We're being followed," said Eddie.

"You would know," Waylon muttered, casting another wary look in the mirror. He bit his lip, hands suddenly slippery on the wheel. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to turn off, no way to lose pursuit, if indeed that was what it was. He swallowed hard and kept driving. After a while, the car behind accelerated and passed them. Waylon tried to get a glimpse of it as it overtook them, but all he saw was headlights and the vague shape of a large vehicle, maybe an SUV or something, before it pulled ahead and sped away around a bend. Waylon eased off the gas a bit, trying to calm his fraying nerves.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Eddie reached over and placed a hand lightly on his knee. His hands jerked on the wheel, sending the Jeep weaving wildly, almost ending up in the ditch by the road's edge. He got the car back under control, and Eddie said, "You're all right, darling. Now turn off the first place that comes along. You're exhausted, you need to rest."

"Should get to somewhere to stay the night," Waylon protested, rubbing a hand over his eyes. His eyes felt grainy and sore, and he tried to stifle a yawn.

" _Now_ , darling. Look, coming up." Eddie pointed through the windscreen. It was hard to see in the dark, but Waylon braked just in time to slow the car enough to make the turn into a narrow trail leading up into the trees. It was a sharp turn, and Waylon had to bring the Jeep almost to a stop to be able to make it without driving straight into a tree. Once off the main road, the Jeep's headlights picked out the way ahead in shades of washed out grey. The trail was little more than a dirt track, trees closing in on both sides, and leading up and away into blackness. Waylon guided the car away from the main road until the trees thinned a little, then pulled over to the side of the trail and stopped. He turned off the engine and let the headlights go dark. Immediately the car was enveloped in velvety black. It was also quiet, this far from a busy road, so the only sound Waylon could hear was his and Eddie's breathing.

Waylon groaned and leant forward, resting his head against his hands upon the wheel. After a moment, Eddie began to rub his back in slow circles. It was absurd, but Waylon felt soothed by it.

"Come here, my love."

Eddie pulled Waylon toward him, and Waylon, shaking, clambered over the central console and into Eddie's lap. Eddie gathered him up like a child, wrapping strong arms around him, a protective barrier to keep the dangers of the night out. Waylon pressed his face to Eddie's neck and clung onto his shirt, breathing in deep lungfuls of his scent. When Eddie tilted Waylon's face up he didn't resist, and their lips met in a kiss that started out sweet but very quickly became desperate — Waylon threw himself into it, all of his remaining energy went into drowning himself in that kiss. Maybe if he let Eddie consume him entirely, he would finally be free of all these gnawing fears, the paranoia, the inner conflicts that were tearing him apart piece by piece. Maybe he would finally know some peace.

Fuck Murkoff Corporation and fuck the world that let them even exist, fuck everyone who turned a blind eye to the horrors they committed in the pursuit of profit.

But then, if he gave himself over to that all too tempting apathy, wasn't he just as bad as all the rest of them? While he was still making his torturous way through the labyrinth of the asylum, he'd been tempted many times to simply end it all and leave the whole festering place to just consume itself. That way the evil would stay contained even if nobody came to know about it, the taint of darkness never allowed to pass beyond Mount Massive Asylum's walls. It was bad enough that Waylon had brought Eddie out of that place with him. Now the madness that infected him was out and could spread. That madness had touched Waylon as well — by now he was probably as stained with it as anybody. Maybe he should have stayed there with Eddie and died with the other victims of the Corporation's twisted experiments.

The thought that had got Waylon through, back then, had been of his children, his wife, of surviving so he could see them all again. Now their faces felt ever further away, each day their images blurred a little more, but what drove him onward was something else. Something less pure, but no less powerful in pushing him through every day — it was vengeance. He wanted the people who had done this to him, and to every other poor bastard in that pit, to pay. He wanted them to get what was coming to them, he _needed_ to know that he lived in a world where such evil didn't go unpunished.

Just now, however, the effects of prolonged stress and fear were getting to him, and he was too exhausted to push through on the power of righteous anger alone. He slumped against Eddie's body, breaking the kiss in order to yawn. He brought a hand up to cover his mouth, but there was no disguising his weariness.

"Rest, darling," Eddie said, stroking Waylon's hair. All was silent around them, save only the muffled chirping of insects in the night. Waylon rested his brow against Eddie's chest. He shouldn't, he ought to get them moving again, but he was struggling to keep his eyes open and Eddie seemed to be wide awake. It wouldn't be the first time he had to trust Eddie to guard his sleep.

"I'll watch over you. You're safe…"

Waylon managed a weak chuckle. He was safe from outside threats, that much he didn't doubt. He really believed Eddie was dangerous enough to handle almost anything that might come along — but there was only so much comfort to be had with a mad guard dog just as likely to bite the one it guarded as the enemies it guarded against. He still fell asleep regardless, curled in Eddie's lap while Eddie stared out into the night, eyes no doubt glinting like a wolf's in the dark.

* * *

Back on the road again the next day, Waylon felt inexplicably much better, rejuvenated almost. He put the radio on for a while as he drove, even found himself humming along to the songs. He caught Eddie watching him with a bemused smile upon his face, but instead of stopping he just held his gaze and broke into song.

" _Tonight, I want to give it all to you, in the darkness there's so much I want to do-_ "

"You sing like an angel, darling," Eddie laughed.

Waylon grinned and tapped out the rhythm on the steering wheel. The window was rolled part way down and the wind tousled his hair, the fresh air felt good on his cheeks. He felt… _happy_. Happy for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. He was alive in spite of impossible odds, in spite of everything. He'd survived, and even if his life had been turned upside down, even if they caught up with him eventually, even if he didn't live to see his sons' faces again… well, he was alive _now_ , and that was a big enough "fuck you" to the monsters who'd tried to silence and kill him to be worth celebrating.

"You're not the only one who can serenade," Waylon said. He rolled the window down the rest of the way and stuck his arm out to feel the breeze against his skin. He pressed his foot down on the gas pedal and the Jeep surged forward. " _I was made for loving you, baby, you were made for loving me. And I can't get enough of you baby, can you get enough of me?_ "

Eddie leant his head against the headrest and watched Waylon with a dreamy smile. "Never," he said. "Never."

* * *

They stopped at a gas station for food and to top up the Jeep's tank. Eddie dozed in the front seat, watching through his lashes as Waylon made what he hoped to be utterly forgettable small talk with the middle-aged attendant. Waylon also picked up a couple of things from the limited selection of groceries the station carried — toothbrushes, a couple packs of disposable razors, candy bars just because he felt like it. Just as he was about to pay, his eye was caught by the headline on a newspaper stacked by the register. He grabbed it and paid for that too, then carried his purchases back out to the car, bag under one arm while he read the article.

"Look at this," he said after climbing back in the car. He showed the page to Eddie, who roused himself from his lethargy. "'Asylum Inferno'. Blah blah, Mount Massive Asylum engulfed in flames, no survivors?"

Eddie took the paper from him and glanced over it while Waylon got back on the road. Waylon was eager to avoid attracting too much attention, even by hanging around for too long. He didn't know if anyone was looking for Miles Upshur — and therefore his car — let alone himself, so the less time he could spend in any one place the better. It was too bad Eddie wasn't exactly forgettable looking.

After a minute or two, Eddie grunted and flicked the paper onto the dashboard.

"…Well?" Waylon asked. "It says it was an accidental fire, but obviously that's a cover-up. The bastards have destroyed the whole place to cover their tracks. And they didn't waste any time, either, that was quick."

"Mhmm."

Crestfallen at Eddie's lack of reaction, Waylon drove on, once again guiding the Jeep onto lesser-used roads.

After about ten minutes of icy silence, he knew something was wrong. Eddie was sitting with his arms folded and staring out the window, displeasure radiating from every inch of his tense, hunched form. Waylon cast him a couple of nervous, sidelong looks and kept driving. They were on a long, open stretch of highway, not much traffic around for miles.

As the silence stretched on, Waylon's nerves frayed as he racked his brain to try and figure out what had set the psycho off this time.

At length, Eddie said, "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"Er… what?"

"Don't take that fucking tone with me. You lying cunt, I saw you flirting with him."

"Wh- _what?_ With who? _"_

Eddie jerked his head to indicate the way they'd come. "Him, at the gas station."

Waylon gaped at him. He couldn't even clearly remember the attendant's face. It was on the tip of his tongue to say "you're crazy", but he caught himself just in time.

"Eddie, I wasn't flirting with anyone," he said. "I was just being friendly."

Eddie's eyes narrowed, a look of absolute contempt in their impenetrable depths. "Maybe you should be a little less _friendly_ toward every man you meet, sweetheart, they might get the wrong idea. You don't want to be mistaken for some _slut_ who'll open her legs for every cock she comes across, or do you? Maybe that's exactly what you want."

"Don't-…" Waylon pursed his lips, weak protests dying in his throat. Suddenly he slammed on the brakes, skidding the car to a stop on the edge of the road, barely avoiding flipping the whole thing over. Eddie grabbed the dash and swore, then immediately turned on Waylon, spitting curses, reaching for him.

"You stupid fucking whore, are you trying to kill me? Watch where you're fucking driving." His fist flew out and smashed into the side of Waylon's head. Waylon hissed, ears ringing, but instead of cowering away from Eddie's rage he turned toward him and attacked. He raked his nails down Eddie's face and then, when that did nothing, balled his fist and jabbed it into Eddie's throat, then his nose, in quick succession. Eddie paused, more stunned than hurting, and some of the anger in his eyes gave way to confusion. Waylon felt a sense of sadistic satisfaction. He'd hurt his hand, but it was a good kind of pain. He bared his teeth and hit Eddie again, just for the sheer joy of it. No one could tell him he didn't fucking deserve it.

Eddie caught Waylon's wrist in one huge hand and growled at him, "Little kitten got some claws, did she?"

"How dare you," Waylon spat. He couldn't slip his wrist from Eddie's grip, so he tried to claw at him with his other hand — which Eddie swiftly restrained as well. Waylon lunged at him, though what he hoped to do he had no idea. Bite him, perhaps. Eddie held him at arm's length with little enough effort, but he was watching him with interest. "How dare you even accuse me of that? Haven't I been faithful to you? Haven't I been a good _fucking_ wife to you, you asshole? You just want any excuse to string me up just like the others, huh? If I don't fail you you'll make something up to justify it, you murdering piece of shit-"

Suddenly Eddie grabbed the back of Waylon's head and pulled him into a crushing kiss, more teeth than tongue, even more so when he bit down hard on Waylon's lower lip. Eddie grinned into the kiss, and Waylon battered against his chest until he squirmed free in a spray of blood. Eddie didn't let him go far, however, and kept his grip on Waylon's hair tight. He forced Waylon's head back, and Waylon grunted at the strain to his neck. Blood ran down his chin from his torn lip. Eddie's lips were bloody too, and it really shouldn't have looked as good as it did.

"Such passion! You're beautiful when you're angry, my darling hellcat," Eddie said.

Waylon only snarled in reply, then made a grab for Eddie's shirt collar, pulling him down for another kiss. Waylon's lip throbbed, the taste of blood made his stomach churn, but he still climbed into Eddie's lap once again, straddling him this time. Eddie let Waylon have both his hands free again, and Waylon wrapped his arms around Eddie's neck as he licked into Eddie's mouth, coating both their tongues in his blood.

"I'm no slut," Waylon muttered in between aggressive kisses.

"Oh, but you are," Eddie said. His arms encircled Waylon's waist, then his hands dipped down below the waistband of Waylon's jeans. "But you're _my_ slut. Isn't that right, love?" One hand reached lower, thick fingers worming between Waylon's buttocks. Waylon shivered as Eddie rubbed at his entrance. "This filthy little cunt belongs to me alone, hmm? Cock-hungry little whore…" He licked Waylon's neck, then bit. After licking over the bruise he made, Eddie continued, "My poor darling… It's my fault, really it was my fault, forcing my slut of a wife to go so long without a cock inside her. Is that it, my love?"

Waylon gasped, found himself moving his hips to get more of Eddie's invasive touches, his body already aching to feel him inside him again. He nodded.

"Y-yes…"

"I don't know what I was thinking. Here, let me help you." He slipped his hands out of Waylon's jeans, only to take the thick fabric in his hands and pull hard. At first Waylon didn't think he could do it, but a moment later he heard a ripping sound, and Eddie had torn open the back seam. He repeated the procedure on Waylon's underwear, which were significantly easier to shred.

"Not… Not here, Eddie, we're right on the side of the r-road-"

Eddie was busy freeing his cock from his pants and slicking it with a cursory sheen of spit. Waylon looked out the windows, twisting around to see if any traffic was coming. They would be in full view if anybody did drive by, and that could get them both in some serious trouble.

"Shh, this won't take long," Eddie soothed. He fitted himself against Waylon's opening and started to lower the younger man down upon him. Waylon's breath caught as he was breached.

"Eddie, _stop_ -"

A harsh slap to Waylon's ass.

"You don't get to tell me no," Eddie said. He forced himself the rest of the way into Waylon's ass and grabbed Waylon's hips, moving him just how he wanted. "Not when I know the truth, you wanton thing… Not when I know your needy little pussy is _begging_ for it."

Waylon whined and curled around Eddie's body, retaliating in the only way he could think of and biting Eddie's neck as hard as he could. Fresh blood welled up and into his mouth, and he made a darkly pleased sound.

It was rough and quick, an intense burn of the passions their fight had ignited. Anger and fear and lust get all mixed up sometimes, or so Waylon would think later. Waylon arched his back, leaning away from Eddie, who held his hips tightly as he ground up into him. His body seized up as he came, just moments before he felt Eddie spill inside him.

After, Waylon lay against Eddie's chest, breathing hard. Eddie was practically purring beneath him. Waylon looked up. They were both still a bloody mess. Waylon wiped his face with the back of his hand, but it didn't do much. His lip was hurting a lot — he gingerly touched the tip of his tongue to it, only to wince.

"Have you calmed down now, darling?" Eddie said. Strangely, Waylon had. He nodded. "Good. Now, let's have no more hysterics."

Waylon was about to reply when he became aware of a car approaching. He swore under his breath and turned away from the road, burying his face against Eddie's chest. Thankfully, the car continued on its way, the driver apparently not paying any notice to the haphazardly parked Jeep or its occupants. It was enough to prompt Waylon to stiffly climb out of Eddie's lap, however. He flopped back into the driving seat. For a moment he spared a thought for poor Miles Upshur, whose car Waylon had stolen — he supposed the man was dead by now, but he probably still wouldn't have appreciated Waylon and Eddie fucking in his passenger seat.

He angled the rear view mirror to get a better look at his face, and rubbed at the smears of blood on his chin.

"Here," Eddie said. There was a water bottle in the glove compartment. Eddie took it out now, reached into the back seat for one of Waylon's shirts, then dampened it with the water and used it to dab at Waylon's face. Waylon tolerated his fussing, holding still until Eddie announced, "There you go, beautiful." Waylon checked his reflection, and gave a small nod. He held out his hand for the shirt, now stained with blood. Eddie handed it over, and Waylon grudgingly returned the favour. His nails had gotten a bit long lately, so he had actually managed to scratch red lines into Eddie's face. He'd caught one of the scabs near his eye, too, drawing even more blood. He cleaned him up as best he could. Eddie held still for him, a faint smile on his lips, his eyes closed. Waylon was careful, almost tender. He thought Eddie enjoyed the attention.

When he was finished, Waylon tossed the dirty shirt back into the back seat. Eddie opened his eyes and took Waylon's hand in his, the hand Waylon had punched him with. He'd bloodied his knuckles on Eddie's nose — curse him for having such a hard head — and Eddie raised his hand to his lips now and kissed away the blood. He finished by pressing a kiss to Waylon's torn, sore lips. Waylon brought his free hand up to the back of Eddie's head and stroked the ends of his hair. Eddie peppered feather-soft kisses to Waylon's face, and Waylon caught himself doing the same. One more gentle kiss on the lips, and then they parted.

Waylon licked his lips unconsciously, and said, "We should… We should get moving again."

" _I'll_ drive from now on," Eddie said with a growl in his voice, but it was only a playful imitation of threat, not the real thing. "Since you clearly can't be trusted to keep your temper."

Waylon only snorted. _That's a piece of fucking irony_ , he though with a shake of his head.

"No problem" he said. He turned and got out of the car, stumbling to his feet and grimacing as he tried to twist around enough to see the damage to his pants. "I don't have that many clothes," he complained.

"I'll fix them for you," Eddie replied with a smile. He got out, did up his pants, and circled around the car to Waylon's side. He gave Waylon's ass a pinch. "Now be a good girl and get in, unless you'd like another night spent on the roadside. I'd like to have you in a bed again, personally."

Waylon obeyed, took his place as passenger, and Eddie hopped into the driving seat. He took a few minutes to familiarise himself with the car — Waylon supposed it had probably been a while since he'd driven — but then they were away. Within just a few minutes Waylon realised he was all too happy to relinquish control for a while, and he nestled himself deeper into the seat and fell into a half-doze, heavy-lidded eyes watching the scenery go by while Eddie sang as he drove.

* * *

Another night, another motel. Eddie was a careful driver, he obeyed the speed limits meticulously, always gave way at intersections, and all the while he kept up a cheerful demeanour — when he wasn't singing aloud he was whistling some jaunty tune. Waylon had nodded off several times, though Eddie had woken him when it was time to stop and eat. Now it was past dusk and Eddie had pulled in to the parking lot of a small motel pulled a little way back from the road. There were tall trees on all sides, seeming to engulf the little building, with its flickering neon signage and its inky dark parking lot, in shadows.

He chose a parking spot as far from the road as possible, and gently nudged Waylon awake. Waylon stretched and looked around while Eddie got out of the car, walked around it, and opened Waylon's door for him. Waylon got out with a smile, only to grimace when he remembered the huge rip in his jeans.

"Ah, shit. I forgot to change."

"Don't worry about it, darling, there's no one around. You get your things, I'll see to the room." When Waylon looked up at him incredulously, Eddie flashed him a dazzling smile. "What, you don't think I can handle it? I managed perfectly well on my own for years before ever setting foot in that awful place."

"Yeah, until you got caught," Waylon snipped, but he still went to the back of the car to pick out his stuff. Eddie went off whistling happily.

He returned shortly, twirling a room key around his finger.

"I got us a special, cheaper rate on the room," he said.

"Huh?" Waylon heaved his heavy bag onto his shoulder, his laptop under his other arm. Eddie reached out to take the bag without a word. "How?"

" _Tsk_. My natural charm, what else? Come on, no use in dawdling."

"A lot of serial killers are charming. Doesn't make you special," Waylon muttered, but he locked the car and followed all the same.

This room was much like any other. It was a little tackier than the last one, a little more down-market, but it was what was available. Waylon noticed one big difference — this room had one double bed instead of two singles.

That figured.

Waylon dumped bag and laptop both on the bed and headed straight for the bathroom. He was a mess, felt crusty and gross — he'd come in his jeans before and spent the rest of the day riding around in them. He peeled off all his clothing on the way to the bathroom, aware as he went of Eddie's heavy, thudding footfalls coming after him. The sound sent chills down his spine.

He peeled off all his clothes and set the shower going. Eddie joined him this time, and they took rather more time than they needed to get clean splashing and fooling around. Waylon towelled himself off and left Eddie in the bathroom doing his best to shave with the cheap razors Waylon had bought.

Waylon had just finished pulling on sweatpants and a not-too-dirty shirt when there came a knock on the door. He froze. He glanced back at the bathroom door, but the water was running, Eddie might not have heard. Waylon bit at the inside of his lip and crept toward the entry door.

"Mr. Park?" Another soft knock.

There was a little peephole in the door, which Waylon peered through now. Outside the door was a casually dressed man, big enough to be a variant but with a bland look on an utterly average face. Behind him, Waylon could just make out the shape of a dark vehicle of some sort.

"Mr. Park, if you could open up. I know you're there. I'd just like to talk to you."

Waylon took a step back.

"Just a second," he called.

Eddie poked his head out of the bathroom door and was about to say something when Waylon gesticulated frantically and, through mouthed instructions and gestures, beckoned him over and told him to remain quiet. He pulled on his pants and shirt on his way, both of which were looking the worse for wear. He didn't bother buttoning the shirt before he took up a position behind the door.

"All right," Waylon called out, trying to keep his voice even. He unlocked the door and opened it a crack, just enough to talk to the stranger eye to eye.

The man flashed him a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Mr. Waylon Park?

Waylon nodded warily. He didn't get a chance to speak, as the stranger suddenly pulled a gun from within his jacket and aimed it at Waylon's head. Waylon jerked back and out of his line of sight. The stranger — sent by Murkoff Corporation no doubt, who else? — barged into the door, slamming it open. Or, he would have, if Eddie hadn't caught it. As Waylon stumbled back, the gunman burst into the room, only to be grabbed and slammed into the wall. A shot went wild, sending a shower of plaster falling from the ceiling. While Eddie grappled with the assassin, Waylon cast around frantically for a weapon. He had nothing.

He had to do something. If Eddie went down, Waylon would be next, and he didn't have half the fighting chance the Groom had. The assassin wasn't quite as big as Eddie, but he had training Eddie didn't have. He was a professional, while Eddie was just a very enthusiastic amateur. As Waylon watched, the assassin managed to gain the upper hand — this time it was he who slammed Eddie into the wall, one forearm against Eddie's throat and his other hand still fighting against Eddie's grip in an effort to point the gun at Eddie's head. If Waylon didn't act soon, this could be the end for both of them.

A flash caught his eye. The assassin's jacket flapped in the course of the altercation with Eddie, showing a knife in a sheath just beneath the empty gun holster. Waylon lunged. There was no time to hesitate. Just as Murkoff's thug pressed the barrel of the gun to Eddie's temple, Waylon grabbed the knife from the sheath and drove it into the side of the assassin's neck. He released the handle and stepped back. The knife stayed where it was, stuck like a skewer in a piece of meat.

Eddie took the gun from the dying man's grasp and shoved him away. The assassin staggered back, one hand coming up to the hilt of the knife. Waylon darted out of the way.

Eddie dropped the gun as though it was of no consequence, then surged toward the hired thug and slugged his fist into the man's head. Waylon heard the _crack_ of his skull breaking, and then he hit the ground, heavy as a sack of bricks.

For a moment they both simply stood there, each staring at the fallen man, Waylon in a state of shock and Eddie one of consideration. Then, slowly, Eddie moved to the door, looked out, and then closed the door and locked it. Waylon stared at the dead man, and then he stared at the two weapons, the gun and the knife. He didn't have time to grab either of them before Eddie was turning away from the door and coming back to him. He stepped over the body and held out his arms for Waylon.

"Darling…" His voice oozed pride, and his lips were pulled into a wide smile.

Waylon found that his legs were shaky. He hadn't delivered the killing blow — at least he didn't think so — but he had killed the man on the floor all the same.

He had killed a man.

He had plunged a knife into a man's neck and watched him die… He thought about plucking up the knife and driving it into Eddie's throat next, or into his heart. He could rid the world of the evil of Eddie Gluskin once and for all, put a final end to the spread of Mount Massive's corruption, and free himself at last from this nightmare…

The window of opportunity passed. Eddie pressed into Waylon's space, wrapped his arms around him. Waylon looked up at him and saw adoration in his eyes.

"My beautiful bride, I knew you loved me. You saved me again."

"I… didn't know what else to do," said Waylon. "He was going to kill you."

"Exactly. You took a man's life, to save mine. Ah, all this time I wasn't sure my love for you was returned, but now… now, you prove your devotion to me. My beautiful, darling love." He pressed his lips to Waylon's, thrusting his tongue between Waylon's lips in his enthusiasm. He scooped Waylon up into his arms, lifting him and prompting Waylon to wrap his arms and legs around him. He kissed him deeply, and Waylon succumbed for a drunken moment before his eyes fluttered open and he spied, over the Eddie's shoulder, the Murkoff agent's cooling corpse. He stilled in Eddie's arms.

"Put me down," he said.

Eddie made a grumbling sound of displeasure but let Waylon slither back onto his feet. Waylon approached the dead man cautiously, Eddie half a step behind him. The Groom seemed even more reluctant than usual to let Waylon out of his reach. Waylon inspected the corpse as though he expected the dead man to spring back to his feet and attack him again. After a minute he nudged him with his toe.

"He's dead, darling," Eddie said.

"Just checking," Waylon replied. He knelt down by the side of the corpse. Blood was seeping out of the wound on the neck. "Get me something to soak up the blood with."

Eddie handed him a balled up pillowcase, and Waylon carefully pulled the knife free. He pressed the wadded cotton pillowcase against the wound to catch the first rush of blood.

"The less mess we can make the better," he said. He was oddly calm about the whole situation, he noticed distantly.

"Here." Eddie knelt down beside him and took over holding the pillowcase to the dead man's neck. "Get the gun."

Waylon nodded and crawled across the floor to retrieved the discarded pistol. Then he turned, on his knees, and looked back at Eddie. Their eyes met. Eddie's expression changed after an instant, face lining with worry when he watched Waylon studying him, his finger on the trigger. Waylon hadn't aimed the gun at him, hadn't even raised it, but the moment stretched out between them. For once, at last, Waylon had the upper hand. Could he put a bullet through Eddie's head before he reached him? A part of him was willing to try. Then his gaze fell back down to the dead body lying between them.

Waylon had only survived because Eddie had been there. If he'd been on his own he would have been toast. Even with a pistol, Waylon was no match for the kind of muscle Murkoff could send after him. When this one didn't report back, they would send more, and then more again.

He was tempted. Oh, he was so, so tempted. A fantasy played before his eyes of killing Eddie, driving off to find Lisa and the boys, and fleeing to safety… But he would only be putting his family in greater danger.

No. It was better to finish it first, then reunite with them when it was safe.

It was better like this.

He clicked the safety on the gun and tucked it into the back of his sweats. The tension between him and Eddie eased somewhat, something like gratitude shining out of Eddie's eyes.

"I knew you loved me," Eddie murmured, dipping his gaze back down to the dead man. "I just knew it…"

It was only later that Waylon realised he had lost track of the knife.

* * *

 _Waylon made it back to the little office where he'd left his camera. Eddie had given him a key to this room and this room alone — it was a dead-end, didn't lead anywhere, and contained only a desk, filing cabinets, and broken computer equipment. Waylon had been afraid of other patients taking the camera from him, so he'd kept it in the desk drawer to keep it safe. He grabbed it, and then took the risk in exchanging his bridal rags for the jumpsuit he'd thankfully been allowed to keep as well. It was easier to move in, not to mention fractionally warmer._

 _It took time he shouldn't have wasted, however._

 _When he re-emerged from the office he came face to face with Eddie, who was wild eyed and frantic._

" _Dar-"_

 _Waylon grabbed the front of his vest and pulled him to the ground. At the other end of the workroom a set of figures had entered and were sweeping the room with flashlights. He and Eddie ducked down behind a work bench just as the beam from one of their lights passed by where the Groom had been standing. Waylon held a finger up to his lips, and then motioned with his head toward the exit. Eddie met his eyes, and then nodded down to his hand, in which he held his knife. Waylon peeked up over the bench. Those weren't just flashlights, he realised, watching the silhouettes of the figures who now moved soundlessly through the workroom. These guys were packing guns, and serious ones too. Eddie trying to take these guys on would be the definition of bringing a knife to a gunfight. In a split second, Waylon wondered if it was worth letting Eddie distract the gunmen so Waylon could sneak away, but the next instant Eddie had taken his hand and was leading him silently back toward the exit. They ducked from bench to bench, Waylon hardly daring to breathe. He hadn't known Eddie could move so quietly, but he was thankful for it._

 _It seemed to take hours just to get through the set of rooms and corridors that Eddie had claimed for his own. Somehow they made it beyond them and through the last short stretches of hallways and stairwells and to the entrance foyer, avoiding Murkoff's lethal clean-up crews on the way. Waylon's heart was in his mouth as he heard them gunning down patients and doctors alike._

 _Waylon wondered that he had been so close to the exit when Eddie had caught him — all this time, freedom had been almost within reach._

 _The bright rosy light of dawn was streaming through the main entry doors, which hung wide open. Waylon got a tantalising glimpse of the garden beyond before he became aware of the figure slouched in the doorway. Eddie's steps slowed, his grip on Waylon's hand tightening as they approached._

 _From afar, Jeremy Blaire looked like he was dead already._

 _As the pair approached him, Blaire came to life. "Mr. Park," he sneered. "And…_ Eddie Gluskin _?" He let out a bark of disdainful, disbelieving laughter. "How the fuck are either of you still alive? Oh, I see… Finally found a bitch, did you, Gluskin?"_

 _Eddie growled and approached, knife in hand. Blaire coughed wetly. He was cradling his middle, and Waylon noticed his shirt was stained red. He narrowed his eyes and reached out for Eddie — something wasn't right._

" _Park, you're a reasonable man, not like this lunatic. Let's make a deal-"_

" _You don't talk to her," Eddie snarled. "I'll stick you like a pig." He lunged for Blaire, blade upraised. Blaire reacted quickly, but not quickly enough. A knife of his own flashed in his hand, but Eddie had more power, and he knocked Blaire's attack aside with a flick of one powerful arm before swinging his blade horizontally across Blaire's face. He drew his arm back for another strike, but Waylon grabbed him and pulled him away and down to the floor, using his whole weight to bring the big man down. His knife went skittering across the foyer floor._

 _The next instant the black mass of the walrider slammed into Blaire and lifted him into the air. The man, whom Waylon had once seen as near all-powerful, screamed and pleaded just before he was torn to pieces. Blood rained down, and the separated pieces of Jeremy Blaire fell to the floor with heavy, wet splats._

 _Waylon didn't have time to question why he'd saved the maniac. Without thinking at all, he grabbed Eddie's sleeve and tugged him towards the door and out into the bright new dawn._


	4. Downpour

Waylon stood at the back of the Jeep, staring down into the trunk space with his hands on his hips. To say he was frazzled was an understatement. The calm that had allowed him to kill a man and joke about it moments afterwards was swiftly disappearing, leaving behind a rising, itching panic that had him sweating and irritable.

"I don't know what we're supposed to do," he hissed. The parking lot was dark, it was late, but he felt a hundred eyes watching him from the darkness all the same. He started to pace back and forth, gesturing to the trunk. Miles Upshur's Jeep had served Waylon well since his escape from Mount Massive, but Waylon was discovering now that it did have its limitations. "There's not enough space. What the _fuck_ am I meant to do? There is no _space_ to fit a body in this car!" His pitch and volume rose incrementally as he spoke. He knew he was being too loud, but he was freaking out. He was about to continue his tirade when Eddie, who had emerged unnoticed from the room, gathered him into his arms and pressed him against his chest. Waylon just let him. He was shaking and hyperventilating, but after a few moments of Eddie's strong, steady arms around him he felt his panic start to ease. The pressure on his chest lifted a little, and he could draw a deeper breath, and then another. That alone should have triggered another fit of panic, but he only had room in his head to deal with one crisis at a time.

"Let me handle all of that, darling," Eddie said. Waylon pressed his cheek against Eddie's chest and breathed in his scent. It was the scent, perversely enough, of safety. Precarious safety, but better than struggling on his own. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it, my love, I'll take care of it all."

It was so tempting to yield to Eddie's seemingly calm authority, but Waylon pushed himself out of the older man's embrace and shook his head.

"No," he said. "No. I did this. We did this together, so we continue it together."

Eddie tilted his head. "Are you sure? It will be... ugly. No sight for a lady."

"I'm no lady," Waylon said. "Come on, tell me what to do."

"All right, but I'm doing the lifting. You're in no condition," Eddie relented, with a pointed look at Waylon's belly.

Together they coordinated to check the Murkoff agent's car and the area around the motel. They found trash bags in amongst the detritus in the bottom of Upshur's trunk, and a snow shovel in the dead agent's SUV, which he had complacently left unlocked. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. They returned to the room. First they stripped the agent of his clothing. Eddie curled his lip in distaste at the task, but Waylon reminded him of the necessity of Eddie's having new clothes. "You can't go around in those rags forever," he said. Eddie huffed at the insult to his handiwork, but conceded anyway, and then they wrapped the now cold, heavy body in the big black trash bags.

Waylon stepped back as Eddie picked up the body with impressive ease, hefting it over one shoulder. Waylon kept an eye out for anyone as they made their way out into the night, around the back of the motel, and into the woods. They trudged some distance from the road—every time Waylon thought it was far enough he made himself go further. Eventually he picked a spot, Eddie confirmed it would do, and put the body down. Waylon started to dig. Eddie only let him get a couple of shovelfuls down before he took the shovel from him and took over. Waylon scrubbed his hands over his face and allowed it this time. Eddie had twice the strength Waylon did, it was only practical. Even then, they were out there for hours. Eddie dug, muscles working, and Waylon took a turn now and then when he managed to wear Eddie down. It was gruelling work on a cold autumn night, and by the time they had a hole dug that Eddie deemed deep enough Waylon's limbs throbbed with a bone-deep ache and there was dirt embedded beneath all his fingernails.

They rolled the body into the hole together, and then began the work of filling it in again.

It was the darkest hours of the morning by the time they returned to the motel.

All Waylon wanted to do was shower and sleep, but he made himself scrub the floor where the agent had bled with soapy water until the worst of the stain was gone. Then, at last, Eddie dragged him into the shower. They helped each other scrub the blood and dirt from their skin, and then they collapsed in a naked heap upon the bed and slept like the dead for a few hours.

Upon waking, Waylon lay motionless for a while as he replayed the previous night's events. There was still more cleaning up to do, and the longer he delayed it the worse it would be. He forced himself up and out of the bed, pulled on some clothes, and roused Eddie. Eddie tried to pull him back into bed, murmuring amorous words, but of all things it was his rumbling stomach that woke him properly.

"We can eat when we're out of here," Waylon said, prompting more grumbles from his newly awoken Groom.

"When did you become such a nag?" Eddie wondered, but he still rolled out of bed and into the dead man's clothes. He grimaced in distaste, but they fit well enough, if a little on the tight side in places. Seeing Eddie in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt of soft jersey was strange for Waylon, who'd come to see his hand-sewn costume as as much a part of the man as the rest of his pseudo-gentlemanly facade. Eddie was visibly uncomfortable in the new outfit, but Waylon held out the jacket to him too, saying, "Come on, here's your chance to look like a real person."

"It's shabby, darling," Eddie said, putting on the jacket.

"It's not. It's good quality."

"It's not about the quality. It's so... informal."

"You can afford to dress informally on your honeymoon," Waylon said, exasperated. "There. You look great." He dusted some dirt off the front of the jacket, turned up the collar to try to hide the blood on the neck of the shirt. "Now let's get out of here."

Waylon was tempted to transfer their things from the Jeep into the Murkoff agent's car instead. It might buy them a little bit of time, before Murkoff realised what had happened to the poor bastard, and if they were looking for Upshur's car, Waylon and Eddie might be able to get some more days on the road before Murkoff caught on. But he must be a sentimental idiot, because it just felt wrong to abandon Upshur's trusty red Jeep.

He just had to hang on and stay alive a little longer, he thought. He just had to keep out of Murkoff's clutches long enough get those tapes leaked.

They compromised by moving the Murkoff SUV into an out of the way place some way into the woods, in the opposite direction from where they buried the body. The whole procedure took longer than Waylon would have liked, and by the time they had trekked back to the motel he was itching to be away from the place, preferably many miles away.

The clothes they'd been wearing when the assassin attacked were dumped in the garbage some miles down the road. Waylon would have liked to burn them, but he didn't want to take the extra time.

Eddie insisted on driving again. Waylon was exhausted from the night before—he wasn't unfit, but he didn't have a variant's stamina, so he was happy to rest up while he planned his next move.

"I've been thinking," he said, as Eddie pulled sedately onto a wide highway. The sky above was blue, the forests on either side of the road deep, rich green. The mountains beyond provided a picturesque backdrop. Any other time and it would have been peaceful. As it was, Waylon's mind was racing. "We can't carry on like this. I need to get that footage uploaded as soon as I can."

"Oh? And how does one go about doing that, my sweet?"

"I think... I think I need to contact some people."

* * *

Simon Peacock had agreed to meet with a Mr. Waylon Park on the strength of his relationship with their mutual acquaintance Miles Upshur. Upshur had recently gone missing whilst investigating a tip regarding Mount Massive Asylum in Colorado. This Mr. Park claimed to be the man who sent him that lead, and, in the absence of Upshur himself or his own investigations, Mr. Park's insights might be crucial in figuring out and exposing what Upshur had been onto. After reviewing Park's footage, Peacock was even more sure that this was information that _had_ to be put out there, not just for Upshur's sake but because the atrocities committed at this asylum deserved to be brought to light. Peacock had been in the job a little too long, perhaps he had become a bit jaded over the years, but the cinder still burned within him of a fire that had once blazed for justice.

He hadn't been overly impressed with Park himself. He met him in an anonymous room, found Park to be an unassuming looking man somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties with a wan face and bleach blond hair long enough to curl at his collar and fall in dry waves across his brow. He was slim and not very imposing, and had a twitchy way of darting his gaze around every few seconds as though waiting for an attack to come from any direction. There was something mildly unsettling lurking behind his brown eyes, though that could simply have been the ghosts of his experiences, which from the videos seemed to have been traumatic enough.

"You realise they'll destroy every other scrap of evidence there is," Peacock said. He gestured to the computer that sat between himself and Park. "They'll deny everything. Video can be doctored, staged. They could bury this entirely."

"I'm aware," Waylon said. "They've already burned down the asylum in an 'accidental' fire. I'm sure they'll go through the place with a fine tooth comb and remove anything incriminating... That's why I have another witness to back me up, if it really comes down to that. I'd rather it didn't—we both would—but..."

"Wait, what? What witness?"

Waylon leant back in his chair and turned his head, as though motioning to someone behind him. A figure detached itself from the darkness, resolving into the shape of a tall, muscular man whose icy blue eyes seemed to glow in the dark. With his arms folded over his chest, he loomed behind Waylon's chair, an intimidating presence to say the least. Peacock instinctively eased himself as far away from the stranger as he could.

"This is Eddie Gluskin," said Waylon. "Possibly the last surviving patient of Mount Massive Asylum. They had him there for years. He was part of the Morphogenic Engine project. He knows everything that went on."

"And he's- Sorry, Mr. Gluskin, _you're_ willing to testify if it comes to it?"

Gluskin hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was softer than Peacock would have imagined based on his threatening appearance. "If it will help protect Waylon," he said.

"It might," Peacock said slowly. "But it might not. It might not make any difference at all." Turning his attention back to Waylon, he spread his hands and said, "I'm sorry. It's just impossible to say. We've done everything we can to cover your tracks, but our enemies have a long reach, they have resources at their disposal you're too moral to even guess at, and they're ruthless. They won't show any mercy."

The tall man chuckled, startling Peacock again. There was something deeply, deeply unsettling about Gluskin, he decided.

"They never showed any mercy before," Gluskin said.

Peacock swallowed. "You were a patient?" He waited for Gluskin to nod, and then said, "They may try to argue you're unreliable as a witness, if they call your, ah, mental health into question. It's like I said, you could be putting yourselves in a lot of danger for no reward."

Gluskin looked down at Park, who met his eyes for a moment. Something passed between them, some unspoken communication Peacock, as an outsider, was not privy to. He wondered how Park had managed to get a patient out of that place with him, if it had really been as dangerous and crazy as the videos suggested. Come to think of it, Gluskin's face looked kind of familiar. He'd have to review the footage again...

Well, they did say that shared trauma could forge a hell of a bond between people, he thought.

"I want to go through with this," Park said. "Please do what you can for my family. Their safety is what matters most, and I think they're in danger whether we go public with this or not. Murkoff wouldn't take the risk of letting it go."

Peacock nodded in agreement. "You're right. Your wife, your kids, they're nothing to Murkoff but ways to hurt you."

Park's lips thinned, but Peacock continued, "You have to understand, Mr. Park, once you click upload, your life is over. Everyone you love is fucked. But it's the right thing to do. Is hurting Murkoff worth that much to you?"

"My life's already over," Waylon said, a layer of steel in his voice Peacock hadn't heard before. "The old Waylon Park died in the asylum. I think it's better that way—better that my family think I'm dead too. The less they know the better."

Peacock nodded. Waylon Park didn't look like much, but the fact that he'd not only survived and escaped the Mount Massive massacre but was still here and out for blood, well, it said a lot. If nothing else, the man had balls of fucking steel.

"All right then," he said. "If you're sure—let's do this."

The upload procedure took a surprisingly short amount of time, Waylon would think later. After sitting with Peacock for hours, it all came down to a few keystrokes, a few minutes of waiting, and then the deed was finally, finally done.

"You did the right thing today," Peacock said, rising and offering his hand for Waylon to shake. After only a moment's hesitation, he held his hand out to Gluskin too. The big man engulfed his hand in his own and gave a crushing shake. Then he stepped back, seeming to prefer to remain slightly behind Park, as though to guard his back. "You'll do irrevocable damage to the company, that's for sure," Peacock said, addressing both men. "You might even get close to something like justice."

"There'll be no justice for any of the patients Murkoff destroyed in that hellhole," Waylon said with a cold smile. "But there might just be some vengeance."

* * *

After the meeting with Simon Peacock from VIRALeaks, Waylon felt like he'd been cast adrift. He had achieved his purpose—the footage was uploaded, surely gaining traction already—and the goal that had been driving him onward was already behind him.

"Might I suggest you find somewhere out of the way to wait out the first storm?" Peacock had said before they had parted ways. He had offered to lend Waylon further help in the matter, but Waylon had felt strangely reluctant to take him up on that offer. He wanted to hide away and really process what had happened to him, lick his wounds, and let Murkoff and everyone else forget about him for a while.

"Don't fool yourself into thinking this is over," Peacock had stressed. "If anything you're in more danger now than you were before. They'll be out for blood."

"I'll manage," Waylon had said. "I survived hell, I can manage whatever Murkoff throw at me."

Peacock hadn't looked convinced, but he had still left. Waylon felt strangely relieved when it was just him and Eddie alone again.

"There is one place," Eddie said when Peacock was long gone and he and Waylon were preparing to move on again. He hadn't met Waylon's eyes as he said it, and there had been a curious tension across his shoulders, but he had persisted nonetheless. "Somewhere we could lie low. It's definitely out of the way."

"It would just be for a while," Waylon said. "Once this is over, well..." He trailed off. In truth he didn't know what would happen to them, and he knew even less what would happen to Eddie. He didn't really know _exactly_ what Eddie had done to get committed to Mount Massive in the first place, but he knew enough to know he wouldn't walk free again. Some people were just too dangerous to be allowed to walk the streets.

Eddie took Waylon's hands in his and pull him into a kiss. He walked Waylon back until his back hit the side of the car, and leant him against it.

"Once this is over," he said. "We'll be free to live the rest of our lives in peace, together."

"All right," Waylon said, after taking a deep breath. "So tell me, what is this mysterious hide-away?"

Eddie seemed evasive when he answered, "Just a place I haven't returned to in many a year."

Waylon thought about it. The tapes he had released finished when Waylon descended into the Vocational Block. He hadn't had the presence of mind to film his and Eddie's final escape, he had been too busy worrying about evading the Murkoff Tactical gunmen. As far as anyone knew, Waylon was the only survivor of the massacre—the only person who knew any different was Simon Peacock, and Waylon had to trust his silence on the matter. No one else knew Eddie Gluskin had made it out, and therefore no one had any reason to connect Waylon with him. Eddie's idea might not be terrible after all. They would keep their heads down for a while until the leaked tapes did their work and Murkoff were hurting too much for it to be worth coming after Waylon any more, and then, once the coast was clear, they could evaluate their next move. Waylon hardly dared to hope for a happy reunion with his family, but he longed for it all the same. With a pang, he realised that would have to be goodbye for him and Eddie. He would like for Eddie to get the help he needed—real help, not the brain-scrambling tortures Murkoff had subjected him to. He had done terrible things, both in the asylum and out of it, and probably didn't deserve mercy, let alone kindness, but Waylon was alive because of him. Maybe he would never be well, but Waylon would like for him to gain some kind of peace all the same. Waylon figured he owed him that much.

* * *

They had been driving for a while, into ever more isolated and rural roads, when the Jeep started to make a terrible noise and smoke began to issue from beneath its hood. Eddie clicked his tongue and pulled over, after fastidiously checking his mirrors and signalling. Waylon was out of the car in an instant, popping the hood and propping it up, wafting away smoke with his hands and swearing under his breath.

"This is just what we need," he grumbled, tension already rising at the idea of being stranded on the side of the road where anyone could see them or grab them. On top of that, the sky had been steadily darkening for a while, and black clouds were rolling in, threatening rain.

"Let me take a look at it," said Eddie, getting out of the car and joining Waylon at the front. Waylon stood aside, albeit with a doubting look at the older man.

"I didn't know you knew anything about cars," Waylon said. He watched as Eddie rolled up his sleeves and began to examine the smoking engine.

"Of course I do, darling, it's the family business."

" _What_?" Eddie looked at him with a raised brow. "I just... I don't know. I had you pegged for a tailor or something like that. I had no idea."

Eddie clicked his tongue. He was doing... _something_ to the engine, but if Waylon had to be honest he had no idea what.

"I learned to sew from my mother. It was her passion." Waylon watched Eddie work. There was something very attractive about the methodical, confident movements of his big, strong hands. "Sadly, circumstances prevented her from opening the charming little dress shop she dreamed of her whole life." He sighed. "It would have been lovely, and I would have been right there to help her. Mother taught me everything she knew, but of course I was still expected to learn the family trade and work with my father and uncle, at least for a while. The business became quite successful, until... Well." He took on a sing-song tone as he talked, as though the things he spoke of were of no consequence, but Waylon thought he detected a certain strain to the man's vocal tone.

"Until?" Waylon said. "Eddie, what happened to your mother?"

Eddie stilled, and for a moment his eyes glazed over. After a moment, he said, "What makes you think something happened to her?"

"I... Well, I just-"

"Mother is alive and well. Really, darling, what an odd thing to say." He straightened. "Well, come on then, this should be up and running again as long as we drive carefully. I really don't think driving the poor thing head first into an iron gate did it any good. In you get."

Somewhat bemused, Waylon got back into the car while Eddie closed up the hood and wiped his hands off on his shirt with a grimace. When Eddie got back in, he made sure both the front windows were down, and flicked on the heater.

"I'll have to take a proper look at it when we get there," he said. "But there's not far left to go. I think she can make it."

The whole incident was over before Waylon could even process it, and then they were on the road again. He was a little nervous about the car blowing up when they were halfway up a hill. Eddie didn't seem worried, but that didn't make Waylon feel much more relaxed, on account of Eddie being stark mad. Still, it was much easier to trust the man's word than to keep worrying. He made himself sit back and close his eyes, breathe deep, and relax.

* * *

The heavens opened shortly after that, so it was pouring with rain by the time they reached the cabin. Well, cabin was a humble word for it. From the vague descriptions Eddie had offered on the way up, Waylon had been expecting a tumble-down log cabin in the middle of the woods, and in truth he wasn't _that_ far wrong, but the cabin was more of a house, with two storeys and glass in the windows, and a veranda that surrounded the whole of the quaint little building. There was a muddy yard and a scattering of outbuildings in varying states of decay, as well as a couple of overgrown open spaces that might have been fields or animal enclosures once. The whole area was surrounded by thick tall trees in all directions. It was reached by way of a long narrow road, really little more than a dirt trail, that had separated from the main road some miles back.

Eddie pulled the car to a stop close to the front entrance of the main house, got out and came around to Waylon's side, and opened the passenger door. He took off his jacket and held it up to shelter Waylon from the rain as the younger man got out.

"You'll catch your death, darling," he said, hurrying Waylon up the three steps and onto the porch, which was sheltered from the downpour. He shook off the jacket and folded it carelessly over his arm, then searched around for a key to the front door. When he didn't find one, he muttered, "Wait here," and disappeared back into the rain, leaving Waylon shivering on the ratty old doormat.

After a while Eddie reappeared, materialising out of the thickly pouring rain like a wraith and hurrying back to the door. He had a key in his hand now, which he slid into the lock and turned. The door opened, and Eddie held the door open for Waylon to enter. Waylon was all too happy to get out of the wet and the cold. Before he could take the step, however, Eddie grabbed him, crying, "Wait!"

Waylon blinked at him in confusion, but Eddie just gathered him up into his arms.

"I have to carry you across the threshold, darling," he said. "I don't know how I could be so forgetful."

Waylon didn't protest. Eddie carried him carefully through the front door and set him back on his feet once inside the entry hall.

Inside was dark and smelled musty, with a slight lingering scent of damp. He found himself in a small entryway, with a narrow hallway leading straight ahead to the right of a staircase, with doors leading off from the passage. Eddie tried the light switch, but with no luck.

"Should be able to fix that when I get the generator up and running," he said absently. "I'll get your things from the car-"

"Wait." Waylon gently touched his elbow. "You'll freeze to death." Eddie's shirt was already plastered against his skin, and he was dripping cold water onto the wood floor. "Wait until this passes? Why not come in and get warm first?" Why was he so worried about a madman's well-being? He was sure Eddie would still be able to tell his side of the story even if he was sick, but he still pulled him away from the door with soft, coaxing touches. "You should get out of these wet clothes before you catch your death."

"Such a doting wife," Eddie murmured, but his mouth was softly curved with amusement. He closed the door and let Waylon peel the wet shirt off him, dropping it to the floor where it sat in a sodden heap. Waylon ran his hands up Eddie's arms to his shoulders, and saw him shiver.

"Ah shit, it's still cold in here."

"You can warm me up," Eddie leaned in for a kiss, and Waylon gave it to him before gently pulling away.

"Let's see if we can speed things along, though. Come on."

He peeked into the first door off the hallway to find a living room. The corners were festooned with cobwebs and the windows were covered by curtains that hung askew on their poles. There was a rough stone fireplace, though, with a thick old rug in front of it. Eddie watched in fond amusement as Waylon bustled over to the fireplace and investigated it. There was a stainless steel scuttle on the hearth, and to Waylon's relief he found it almost a quarter full with coal. The fireplace itself was home to several balls of screwed up newspaper.

"Matches... Are there matches anywhere?"

Eddie left the room and returned a few minutes later with a little box containing two matches. He handed it to Waylon. Waylon's gaze tripped over the sight of the big man's skin covered over in goosebumps and his dark nipples hardened to demanding points. He bit his lip and focused on the task at hand. The first match failed to light, too damp from having sat in a drawer in an empty house for too long. Waylon bit the tip of his tongue between his teeth as he carefully lit the second. This one sparked, and he managed to get some of the newspaper kindling lit, which he had placed on top of a layer of coal in the fireplace.

After a while, and a bit of work, Waylon managed to get a little fire burning.

"I didn't know you were in the Girl Scouts," Eddie remarked. He sat down on the rug beside where Waylon was kneeling. He had his arms wrapped around himself now, and was shivering in earnest.

"I wasn't," Waylon said. "But Lisa was. But we used to have an open fire in our vacation home when I was a kid, I watched Mom do it plenty of times. It'll take a while to warm the room up, so..." He turned on his knees so he was facing Eddie. For some reason he started to blush as he reached out for Eddie's fly. Eddie smirked at him and made no move to help him. Waylon inwardly cursed him but undid his pants anyway. "Stand up so I can get these off you. You shouldn't sit in wet clothes."

"Anything for you, darling."

Eddie rose to his feet and Waylon remained on his knees. He slid the wet denim of Eddie's pants down his powerful thighs, taking his underwear with them, and Eddie stepped out of them both. Shoes and socks went the same way, until Waylon had Eddie naked, skin glistening slightly with moisture. He wasn't shivering anymore, however. Waylon quickly stripped off his own clothing and reached for Eddie to join him on the rug. It wasn't exactly clean, but they had lain down on worse.

They lay down side by side, all warm kisses and possessive hands, but Waylon soon swung himself on top of the bigger man and covered him with his body.

"For warmth," he murmured, earning a chuckle from Eddie.

"You're very warm," Eddie said, snaking his hands down Waylon's body. Waylon writhed atop him, enjoying the simple pleasure of skin against skin. He felt almost giddy. It must be the relief, he figured, of having dealt with the footage at last and left the whole matter squarely in VIRALeaks' hands, at least for a time. Some of the tension that had been gnawing at him was gone, some of the weight upon him lifted, and he felt in danger of floating away now it was gone. He found himself grinning, laughing even, as he rubbed himself against Eddie's rapidly warming body. Then he slid his way down, kissing and biting as he went, his hands grabbing and kneading all over. Eddie loved the eager attention, and by the time Waylon reached his cock it was halfway hard. Waylon took it in his hand and licked and kissed up and down it, stroked it, then nuzzled in beneath it.

"Oh... oh, my sweet darling..." he heard Eddie whisper. Eddie spread his legs, and Waylon wrapped an arm around one meaty thigh. He lavished kisses upon Eddie's balls, suckled them gently, all while stroking his hand slowly up and down Eddie's cock.

Before he could stray any further down, Eddie's hand closed on his hair and tugged him back up.

"Open your mouth, love."

Waylon did.

This time Eddie didn't take over control, but left Waylon to set the pace. Waylon was uncertain for a moment, but he caught on soon enough. He wrapped both his hands around Eddie's shaft and moved up and down, taking Eddie's cock deeper and deeper into his mouth while suckling on it. His eyes fluttered closed, and he lost himself in his task. Eddie flexed beneath him, hips moving now and then as he tried but failed to hold himself back entirely. Waylon caught snatches of whispered praise from Eddie's lips, but Eddie kept his hands down, gripping onto the rug beneath him. Waylon hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, before swallowing down as much of Eddie's length as he could. That earned an emphatic curse, and he opened his eyes to see Eddie arching, one arm thrown over his face now. Waylon was hypnotised by the movement of Eddie's abdominal muscles as they flexed and tightened.

He worked for a while longer, his sense of pride growing along with the deeply satisfying pleasure of watching a lover come undone beneath his touches.

 _Lover? Eddie isn't my_ lover _,_ Waylon thought, but it was a fleeting thought and it disappeared from his head the next moment, when Eddie thrust up into his mouth, the tip of his cock bumping into and past the entry to his throat. He pressed a hand to Eddie's hip, trying to push him down. He didn't have the strength to pin Eddie if he didn't want to be pinned, but to his surprise he did still, although his body trembled and his thighs tensed from the effort of resisting the instinct to fuck Waylon's face. Eddie's restraint caused a strange reaction in Waylon, whose face burned bright red while his cock throbbed. He rubbed himself against the rug, and for a fevered moment was at risk of coming before he forced himself to lift his hips up and stop himself.

He shifted onto his knees. He pumped Eddie's cock with one hand while he suckled on its thick, rounded head. His other hand slipped back down between Eddie's thighs to cup and stroke his balls. He looked down at Eddie's face, wanting him to look back at him. Eddie's chest heaved as he pulled in deep, ragged breaths, his body writhing. At last he took his arm away from his face and met Waylon's eyes. Waylon held his gaze as he pumped Eddie's cock faster, faster, all while worshipping the tip with his lips and tongue, suckling it like candy. He felt Eddie's balls draw up away from his hand, and then he was coming, his magnificent body tensing so beautifully and all for Waylon.

Waylon got the first shot of come straight in his mouth, but then he drew away a little and kept his mouth open. He kept eye contact, even as Eddie finished coming all over his face.

Waylon shuddered, almost overcome with need as his Groom marked him. Even when he had milked the very last pulse of come from Eddie's cock he kept stroking it, gentler now, and lapped at it like a kitten until Eddie reached for him and pulled him up his body.

"Look at you," Eddie crooned. "You look _so_ beautiful, darling. Was that good? Did you need that?"

Waylon stretched his body out on top of Eddie's, offered himself blindly for a kiss. He was rubbing himself against Eddie's hip, mindlessly, heedless to the danger. Fortunately Eddie was too preoccupied with the sight of his seed all over his beloved's pretty, blushing face to think much about Waylon's hard cock grinding insistently against him. One hand was in Waylon's hair, the other came up to Waylon's face. Eddie gathered the warm come on his fingertips and then pushed them into Waylon's mouth. Waylon suckled on Eddie's fingers and swallowed down all of his thick cream, making the older man groan. He pushed his fingers further into Waylon's throat, and Waylon breathed deeply through his nose and made himself relax so Eddie could go deeper. He felt light-headed, his hips wouldn't stop moving.

"That's it, love. Rub yourself against me, make yourself come for me."

Eddie took his fingers out of Waylon's mouth and reached down to Waylon's ass. He rubbed at Waylon's entrance and then pushed those same fingers inside. Waylon whimpered, pressed his face against Eddie's neck. Waylon spread his legs, straddling Eddie's hips, and slid his cock against Eddie's still sensitive length. His movements sped up as his orgasm approached, and Eddie tightened his grip on Waylon's hair and pulled his head up.

"I want to see you when you come, darling. I want to see your face."

"Use... ah..."

"Mm? What is it, love?"

"Use my name."

Eddie blinked, hesitated only a moment before redoubling his efforts. He thrust his fingers deeper into Waylon's body, pressing them against all the secret spots he had learned drove Waylon crazy. Waylon jerked against him, grabbed and held onto his shoulders. Eddie watched his face as though he were fascinated.

"Use my name," Waylon begged. "C-call me-"

"Waylon." Eddie purred the name into Waylon's ear, then nibbled at his earlobe. "My darling, my sweet, my Waylon."

Waylon cried out, clung onto Eddie even tighter, and spilled himself against him. His come splashed and slid between their bodies, coating their skin. Waylon writhed and shuddered as he rode out the highest peak of his climax, and then relaxed down atop Eddie, draping over him while absently stroking his hair. Eddie withdrew his fingers from Waylon's ass and stroked up and down his back, seemingly content.

After a while, Waylon moaned, "... _Fuck_."

"Mm?"

"Nothing, just..."

"Mm, I know." Eddie pressed a kiss to Waylon's cheek.

Waylon basked in his afterglow and in Eddie's loving attention for a bit longer before pushing himself up onto his arms. He looked down between them and went cold when he saw the mess he had made. He froze, anticipating Eddie's wrath once he realised what Waylon had done, but it never came. Eddie propped himself on his elbows and followed Waylon's eyes.

"You've gushed all over me," he said distractedly. Perhaps he didn't quite realise the truth of what he was seeing, his delusion not allowing it. Even so, Waylon blushed, reached for his discarded shirt and swiftly wiped the evidence of his orgasm away from both their bellies. "How shameless..."

"Sorry..."

Eddie caught Waylon's chin between his thumb and fingers. "Don't be sorry for your ardour, my love. _Waylon_. You don't ever need to be sorry for wanting me." He pulled Waylon down for a sweet kiss, then let him go. Waylon rolled off him and lay beside him. Eddie wrapped one arm around his shoulders as though they were a real couple.

Waylon lay there and tortured himself. _I initiated that_ , he thought. _No one forced me, no one threatened me. I saw him and I wanted him, simple as that..._

He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at Eddie. Eddie watched him back through heavy lidded eyes, an all-too-pleased smirk upon his chapped lips. His hair was still wet, and had fallen out of its usual neat stripe to fall in dark spikes over his brow. He lay with one arm folded behind his head to form a pillow, his massive body stretched out like a big cat. It wasn't wrong of Waylon to appreciate beauty where he found it, was it? Even if that beauty was somewhat scarred and extremely dangerous? So many horrors he'd seen, how could anyone blame him for latching onto whatever pleasures did come his way? He didn't realise that as he was thinking this, his hand had crept out and was stroking its way down Eddie's torso.

"You really can't get enough, can you?" Eddie remarked. "You're addicted."

Waylon shook his head, but with a strangled little laugh he wondered to himself, _Maybe I am. What then?_

"You would like that, wouldn't you?" he said.

"I can't say I would complain," Eddie replied. Waylon's hand crept lower, and his gaze travelled downwards along with it. His fingertips played through the trail of dark hair that led from Eddie's navel to his groin

When he realised what he was doing he almost snatched his hand away. As it was, he only stilled, and then brought his hand back up to Eddie's chest and lay down against him once more.

 _I can't let that happen again_ , he told himself. _It's bad enough that I... enjoy it. Demanding it is something else. Seeking it out. I have to remember what he is, what_ this _is._ He sighed and turned his face against Eddie's shoulder. _I must be going crazy. I think I really must be going crazy now._

* * *

The rain didn't let up. Instead, it got worse, thickening until great impenetrable sheets of icy water lashed the ground and a cold wind set the windows of the empty old house rattling. It wasn't that late in the day but it became dark enough to be night.

Eddie braved the weather again to unload the car and then move it and park it in the biggest of the outbuildings, beneath a tarpaulin. Waylon suspected he had done it in part to have an excuse for Waylon to warm him up again.

While he was doing that, Waylon took it upon himself to explore his new refuge. The house was bigger than it had seemed when they had first driven up. Every inch of it was covered in dust, the floorboards creaked under his feet, and the air had a stale taste to it that was something more than simply being shut up for years—there was a sad, lonely feeling there, which gave Waylon the chills. It didn't help that Waylon had developed a habit of walking softly—not that he'd ever been particularly heavy-footed—so he moved on silent, bare feet from room to room like a ghost. He investigated the downstairs first. There was a doorway under the stairs that led down into the basement. Waylon didn't go down there yet, and explored the rest of the ground floor instead. In addition to the living room, where the fire still blazed, there was a decent sized kitchen with an attached pantry. The pantry's shelves still held an assortment of canned and dried food. Bugs and damp had gotten into some of the dry stuff, but the cans were still good, if long past their sell-by dates. Waylon made a mental note to come back later and do an inventory.

Upstairs, Waylon found the master bedroom, with its double mattress sagging on a cast iron frame and the closets filled with moth-eaten jackets and dresses. There were two other bedrooms, one cluttered with hunting paraphernalia and another, much smaller one that had such a foreboding, oppressive atmosphere in its musty air that Waylon only glanced in briefly before ducking out and closing the door again. He spied a single bed tucked under a sloping roof, a scattering of books, and got a whiff of something awful, like something dead. He wasn't eager to investigate further.

The room that intrigued him the most was up another flight of stairs, in a sort of rickety attic turret that gave the room better views over the surrounding forest than anywhere else in the house. This was the only room in the whole house where Waylon felt he could really draw a full breath. The tight iron bands around his chest loosened as soon as he walked in, and his shoulders lowered without his conscious knowledge. By one window there was a work table littered with all manner of tailoring supplies—swathes of pattern paper, glittering piles of needles and shears, brightly coloured felt pincushions bristling with silver pins, and of course a beautiful old Bernina sewing machine that must have once been its owner's pride and joy—while rolls of fabric were propped hither and thither against the walls. A collection of dress forms clustered like ladies enjoying an intimate tête-à-tête, each of them draped with swags of patterned cloth in varying stages of pinning and stitching. There was a thick carpet on the floor that muffled Waylon's light footsteps and felt soft beneath his toes. He ventured further into the room, cast a lingering eye over everything as though trying to drink it all up. There were sketchbooks lined up in rows upon shelves on the wall, but Waylon didn't want to disturb anything to touch them and see what was inside them. He felt like an intruder here just as much as in the rest of the house, but in this chamber it didn't feel like such a terrible crime. He thought that whoever had worked here in this room would have welcomed his visit.

That night they bedded down on the rug by the living room fireplace, instead of taking over any of the bedrooms. Waylon gathered up the cleanest, warmest blankets he could find from closets all over the house and made a cosy nest for them by the hearth. The rain continued on, so heavy and so fierce that the house felt to Waylon like a little boat tossed around on a raging sea. As darkness closed around them and the hush of the forest descended, Waylon and Eddie lay curled up in a little island of orange firelight, bodies pressed together for warmth and joined just for the pleasure of it. With the darkness all around them, and the house and the woods outside so quiet, it was as though he and Eddie were the only two people left in the world.

The next day the rain had thinned to a drizzle. Waylon cobbled together a breakfast out of whatever he could find, and then Eddie went down to the basement to see about getting the generator up and running.

Left alone again, Waylon went upstairs to investigate the bathroom. There was no shower, but there was a grimy bathtub. When Waylon turned on the faucet nothing happened at first, then there was a rattling and banging as though the whole house was about to fall down, and then a great glob of brown water burst from the faucet and splatted down into the tub. Waylon grimaced, but waited. More sputters of brown, sludgy water emerged, but the longer he left the tap running the cleaner the water became. He left it running a while, and then, on a whim, grabbed a rag from the cupboard under the sink and gave the tub a cursory clean.

He didn't feel like lying down in the tub even then, so he gave himself a quick wash at the sink, after repeating the same procedure with that faucet too, scrubbing himself as best he could with the small sliver of old, dried soap he'd managed to find. He used his own clothes to dry himself off, and put his damp pants back on. Next on the list would have to be laundry, he noted.

It felt strange to be focused on such domestic, seemingly trivial matters, but the truth was he was down to the last few garments he'd grabbed from the house in Leadville, leaving him with only two options—wear filthy clothes, or don't wear anything at all. The latter didn't seem particularly ladylike, and besides, it was too cold, so it had to be option one.

By the time Waylon was done washing and dressing, he met Eddie in the entry hall just emerging from the basement stairs, wiping his hands on a rag.

"You got the generator going?" Waylon asked.

"It just needed a little tender loving care," Eddie said. "We should have power now, but should perhaps use it sparingly. There's only so much fuel."

"All right. I'm thinking of doing some laundry."

"What a wonderful idea." Hands clean now, he reached out and caressed Waylon's cheek. Waylon's face heated in spite of himself. "The machine is down there," he said, gesturing down the basement stairs with his thumb.

"I'll need those," Waylon said with a nod to indicate the clothes Eddie was wearing. He was eager to get the blood out of them.

Eddie grinned. "And leave me without a stitch to wear? How naughty."

"Isn't there something you could put on in one of the upstairs closets? If not I'm sure you could sew yourself something new."

"And how would I do that, darling?"

Lulled into complacency by the uneventful morning and the intimacy of the previous evening, Waylon missed the warning glint in Eddie's eyes, the cool quality to his voice. He blurted, "The tower room upstairs that's full of sewing stuff, fabric and everything."

"You went up there, did you?"

"Ah... Was I not supposed to?"

Eddie's gaze flickered, and then he shook his head. He smoothed his hair back with one hand. "My apologies, my love. I neglected to tell you." If Waylon didn't know better he'd say Eddie's hands were shaking.

"I didn't touch anything," said Waylon.

"No... No, of course, you wouldn't have known," Eddie said softly, but it almost seemed like he was talking to himself more than to Waylon. Waylon got the feeling of having dodged a bullet. "Foolish of me. Of course you'll want to explore your new home."

"Thank you, Eddie." Waylon didn't push the matter, but he did dart forward and place a light kiss on Eddie's cheek, and squeezed his arm gently. The show of submissive affection seemed to placate him, and his face broke into a rueful smile.

"This _is_ your home, now," he said. "Yours and mine."

Waylon nodded. "...You don't have great memories of this place, do you?" he asked daringly.

"I don't- Whatever makes you say that, dear?" His smile faltered for just a split second.

"Nothing," Waylon said. "Just a feeling."

Eddie took a breath in through his nose. He wasn't looking at Waylon any more, his gaze seemed fixed on some faraway point, maybe somewhere in the past.

"It doesn't matter," he said at last. His tone was bright now, artificially so, and he gave Waylon a smile that set Waylon on edge. "We can make new memories, wonderful ones. Just you and me."

Waylon made himself smile. "Yeah," he said. "Well, I'd better get started with the laundry."

Eddie nodded. "Mm. I'll go and find something to change into." He moved past Waylon, heading for the stairs. Before he got there, he paused. "And darling?" he said. Waylon turned back. "Don't go wandering upstairs again without me. It's an old house, and quite dangerous... I'd hate for something to happen to you."

* * *

"I lied to you before."

"Hm?" Waylon lifted his head. They were lying in the middle of the night, on their blanket nest by the fireplace again. Eddie lay on his back, Waylon half draped across his chest, his head pillowed upon Eddie's shoulder. When Eddie didn't meet his eyes, and instead continued staring blankly up at the ceiling, Waylon lowered his head again and listened to the beat of Eddie's heart through his chest. He waited until Eddie was ready to say more.

"I told you my mother was alive and well. That wasn't true."

"...I thought it might not have been," Waylon said quietly.

"My mother hung herself when I was twelve," Eddie said. His voice, though hushed, seemed very loud in the quiet room. Outside, the constant rain drummed against the roof and windows, creating an isolating effect that increased the feeling of intimacy between the two men in the creaking old house. "I loved her so much. I thought she loved me, but she still left me. She left me with _them_..."

There was a long silence. Waylon had suspected tragedy lay in Eddie's past, but he still didn't know the right thing to say now. He listened to his gut and just stroked Eddie's shoulder very gently, keeping otherwise still.

"What kind of a woman would do that to her only son?" Eddie wondered. "The lying bitch... She _said_..."

When Eddie's voice trailed away, Waylon looked up and was shocked to see the shine of tears running from his eyes, which were pressed tightly shut. Waylon didn't remark on it, only laid his chin on Eddie's chest and watched him. His chest ached, not from anxiety this time but terrible sadness.

Eddie Gluskin was a monster, that would never be in question, but he was also just a man, very sick and very, very broken. He remembered that Eddie had been tortured just as much as anyone else in the awful place where they had met and which Waylon knew would haunt them both forever, and who knew what had happened to him before then? How did a person ever become such a monster? To Waylon's understanding, to even be selected as a candidate for the Morphogenic Engine a patient had to have already seen horror, they had to already be half broken from unspeakable trauma. They had to have glimpsed hell already, and the Engine just pushed them over the threshold and forced them to live in it. He couldn't even begin to understand how a mind got so twisted up and wrong. He didn't believe every traumatised person became a killer or a sadist, of course not. Maybe Eddie had been born wrong, already with the seed of evil within him—but maybe, also, his experiences had pushed an already at-risk mind past the breaking point and forced him to cross lines he may never have neared otherwise.

Or maybe normal rules simply didn't apply where the Murkoff Corporation and the walrider were concerned. Waylon didn't doubt for a moment that the creature was something more than it appeared on paper. The Murkoff "scientists" might have been able to convince themselves it was nothing but nanomachines, but Waylon had felt the touch of its evil on his mind. The static still lingered now and then, burrowing into his brain until he was afraid he had lost his mind in the asylum after all. Eddie had been subject to the walrider's influence for years. If he hadn't been mad before the "therapy", there was no way he could be anything else after.

"I promise I won't lie to you again," Eddie said after a long silence, his voice almost a whisper. His arm tightened around Waylon, holding him close as though he were afraid of losing him. "It's not... fitting behaviour. And you don't deserve it. You're the only one who's ever really loved me, darling, not like everyone else who only pretended. My lying whore of a mother abandoned me, and everyone else only wanted one thing." He bared his teeth in an involuntary grimace, fury and pain audible in the raggedness of his voice. "But you... You're not like any of the others. My angel, my pearl. You would never hurt me."

"I'll try not to," Waylon whispered in reply. He was surprised to find that he meant it. In spite of the horrific treatment this man had subjected him to, the rape and the humiliation and the terror, Waylon still didn't want to heap even more pain and torment on him. His thirst for revenge was focused on the Murkoff Corporation, of whom Eddie was really just another victim. It occurred to him that this was probably strange, maybe even wrong, but he couldn't change the way he felt. "I'll really try, Eddie. I promise."


	5. Haunted

Waylon gathered up everything he could that needed washing and carried it down to the basement in his arms. The washing machine was an old, rusted top-loader tucked in the far corner of the basement. Waylon descended the basement stairs carefully as he could barely see over the pile of crumpled laundry in his arms, and the wooden stairs creaked beneath his feet, making him afraid one of them would splinter and break beneath his weight. They didn't, and when he reached the bottom of the steps he fumbled around looking for the light switch. Even when he pulled the cord, causing the bare light bulb to flicker and buzz to life, it didn't help much. The basement was the size of the house's entire floor plan, though more than half of it appeared to be barricaded off behind stacks of boxes and shelves loaded with mildewed old books and general household detritus. In the other corner from the washing machine, the generator chugged noisily away. The feeble light from the single bulb didn't stretch far into the big, dark space, so Waylon navigated his way very carefully on bare feet over and past decades worth of discarded junk until he reached the washing machine. There was a box of washing powder that was still about a quarter full next to the machine. The powder had hardened over time, but Waylon was able to chip out enough for the wash load. He figured out how the machine worked and set it running. It wobbled and banged disconcertingly, but he didn't think it was about to break just yet.

Once that was done, he turned his attention to the rest of the basement. A thick layer of dust covered everything. A box caught his eye, a sagging cardboard box with mould on the corner, but a name scrawled in black marker across the side: "Eddie's". Waylon picked his way over to it and lifted one of the flaps at the top. Maybe there was something in here, or else somewhere else in this jumbled archive of the Gluskin family history, that could shed some light on the dangerous puzzle that was the man he was living with. The box was piled with clothes and toys. Waylon picked out a child-sized sweater. It looked to be hand-knitted out of navy blue yarn. Waylon felt the softness of it between his thumbs and fingers, before noticing crusty brown blood stains near the collar. He frowned and put it back down again. He dug a little deeper. There wasn't anything out of the ordinary there, just the ordinary leftover items of a long-ago childhood. It seemed Eddie had been an only child. Waylon thought it must have been a lonely time, growing up all the way out here miles away from anything or from anyone who could help.

He moved on to a set of wooden shelves nearby. It was piled with all manner of things, from broken knick-knacks to rusted garden equipment, but there was also a stack of photo albums, their leather covers cracked by time and neglect. It struck him then that he hadn't seen any photographs on display anywhere in the house. They must all be down here, hidden away like something that should be forgotten. He reached for the album on the top of the stack. Upon opening it, he was faced with a black and white image of a smiling young woman in a flowing, floral-print dress. She had long black hair that fell in soft waves down to her waist and a wide-brimmed hat upon her head. In her arms she held a child, perhaps around two years old, if Waylon had to guess, dressed in shorts and sandals and with a mop of black hair that fell girlishly over his brow. The woman balanced the child on her hip with apparent ease, and both mother and son beamed out at the camera as though they hadn't a care in the world. She had dark eyes, the boy light, but apart from that they looked to be the spit of each other. The picture looked like it had been taken outside the house—Waylon could see the front porch some distance behind the figures. Beneath the photo was written in a curly, feminine hand, "Catherine and Eddie, 1969".

Waylon turned the page. There followed other, similar images—the boy playing in the yard or in the woods behind the house, smiling and laughing, playing chase with his mother in a grassy meadow. Waylon struggled to connect that innocent, carefree child with the violent, broken man he knew.

Some of the pictures were more formal. One depicted the Gluskin family posed inside what Waylon recognised to be the living room of the house, about where he and Eddie had made their bed. Pine garlands across the fireplace behind them signaled it was taken around Christmas time. The young woman looked less carefree in this one, as did the child, who stood formally in front of his parents. Waylon studied the family. There were faint shadows beneath Catherine's eyes, her hair was pulled into a demure braid over one shoulder. She wore a cheesecloth blouse with a crocheted vest over the top and a tiered skirt, with a patterned scarf wrapped around her throat. Young Eddie was dressed like a little adult in his Sunday best, like a miniature version of the man by Catherine's side. Waylon took him to be Gluskin Senior. He studied him a good long while. He had the same light eyes as Eddie Junior but lighter hair which was slicked back into an old-fashioned style. He was considerably older than his wife, and had a harsh, deeply lined face and the broad, imposing figure which the adult Eddie Jr. had inherited. He had one arm around Catherine, his large hand clamped possessively on her slender waist.

Waylon wondered briefly who had taken this family portrait. His question was answered a few pages later, when he came to a picture of young Eddie, two or three years older now, sitting in the lap of a man who looked almost identical to Eddie's father but with longer hair and a short, grizzled beard. Eddie was staring out into the camera, while his uncle's eyes were on him.

Something stirred in Waylon's gut as he looked at that picture. Ostensibly there was nothing suspicious about it, but Waylon's paternal instincts were screaming "danger". His mouth flattened into a hard line, and his fingers crumpled the corner of the page. He wished more than anything to remove that little boy from the situation, to protect him somehow. Useless now, of course. That little boy was no longer. He had gotten lost ages ago, replaced by the creature that would eventually come to be called The Groom.

Waylon perched on the edge of one of the sturdier boxes and continued to leaf through the pages of the family album. As he turned a page near the back, a slip of paper fluttered out and to the floor. It was much folded and worn smooth at the edges. Waylon bent to pick it up, but before he could unfold it he heard Eddie call from upstairs, "Darling? Where are you?"

Inwardly cursing, Waylon put the album back where he found it and hastily closed the box of Eddie's childhood things. He had been too long out of sight, and he didn't think he should let Eddie find him like this, digging into his past life without permission. He put the slip of paper in his pocket without thinking much of it. It took all his willpower to jog towards and up the basement stairs instead of finding a hiding place amidst the jumble, but he did it. He turned off the light as he went by, plunging the basement full of dusty old memories back into darkness, as though Waylon had never been there. But later, the face of the young woman who had worn such a happy smile in that first photograph would haunt him, just as surely as her absence haunted the lonely old house where Waylon suspected she had died. And, too, the face of that little boy lingered in his mind. Waylon had wanted to save him, but nobody had. In the end Eddie hadn't had anybody to protect him, and many, many more than just him had paid the price. Now Waylon was all he had left, and Waylon was afraid it was far too late to make a difference.

* * *

The weather brightened after a couple of days. Waylon was glad to be able to throw open the doors and windows of the house and let in some fresh air at last. Eddie found an old radio from somewhere and tuned it to a station that suited his taste, and even pitched in to help when Waylon fished around in the porch and found some old cleaning supplies and started sprucing up the place. It wasn't the rock music Waylon preferred, but as long as he never had to hear _I Want a Girl_ ever again he didn't care what Eddie put on. Waylon placed a feather duster in Eddie's hand and set him to cleaning off the ground floor surfaces while Waylon swept the carpet of dust and mouse droppings out the front door and off the porch into the yard. Once that was done, he set to the kitchen, scrubbing everything as best he could before taking inventory of the food items they had, tossing anything bad, and scribbling a list of things they should try to pick up when they got the chance. Eddie seemed remarkably docile throughout the whole process, even taking instructions from Waylon when he needed things lifting or carrying. It was useful to have the big man around, his brute strength making the more arduous chores both quicker and easier.

With fresh air and sunlight streaming in, the hold house began to lose some of its oppressive atmosphere. Waylon continued doggedly on, determined to shed the house of its ghosts one room at a time, even if it was damned hard work to do so.

The biggest problem was the fact that the heavy rains had revealed several leaks in the roof. Waylon didn't like entering the upstairs rooms, but he braved them to go around and place buckets and bowls under the worst spots, swearing under his breath when he saw the damage. For the time being he left it at that, closing the bedroom doors behind him, out of sight and out of mind.

Waylon planned to get the food supplies himself, seeing as he had already proven that he would come back. Eddie was more conspicuous than he was, and Waylon didn't exactly trust him not to cause trouble unattended. Eddie still displayed considerable anxiety at letting his bride out of his sight, but Waylon assured him he would return as soon as he could.

"It's not that, darling. Of course I know you would come back to me. But there are people out there who want to hurt you, hurt both of us. If anything happened to you because I wasn't there-"

"I can take care of myself, Eddie," Waylon said, and took out the stolen gun he still kept within reach at all times to prove it. "See? I'm not defenceless. If anyone tries to start any trouble with me they'll be in for a nasty surprise."

Still, because he didn't want to risk the Jeep being seen in the area any more than it had in getting there, he had to wait. The outbuilding where Eddie had hidden Upshur's vehicle had once, Eddie explained, been a small barn, but when Eddie was younger it had been used as a garage. He brought Waylon inside to look at it. The walls that presumably had once been hung with farming equipment were now arrayed with auto parts and mechanic's tools. The Jeep sat under its tarpaulin, and beside it was an old truck, seemingly missing half its engine and two of its wheels.

"I can get this old girl fixed up in no time," Eddie assured him. "I just have to remember… Ah, well. Don't worry your head about that. Just leave it to me."

Waylon approached the truck, touched the top of the grille at the front and peered under the hood. He didn't know much about cars. He could generally make anything electronic do what he wanted, but when it came to more primitive machinery he was at a loss. If Eddie could really put this thing back together and get it running he would be pretty impressed.

"You really know a lot about this stuff, huh?" Waylon remarked.

"Oh yes. I used to spend long afternoons out here with- Ah… well, that's not important. Darling, could you hand me that over there?" Eddie gestured vaguely toward a bench upon which were arrayed various tools. Waylon was beginning to recognise the false brightness in his voice and the slight glaze to his eyes as signs Eddie was actively steering his mind away from dangerous or hurtful memories—or a reality he still wasn't ready to fully face. "No, not that one-"

"Just tell me which," Waylon said, frustrated by trying to follow Eddie's waving fingers. "I have used tools before."

"The wrench," Eddie snapped. Waylon picked it up, idly threw it up in the air and caught it again, then tossed it to Eddie. Eddie caught it with a disapproving look on his face. "Tsk. I forget you're such a tomboy."

Waylon watched Eddie work for a little longer, then announced he was going back inside to continue cleaning. Eddie didn't look up, kept his head buried beneath the truck's hood, his shoulders hunched as he tinkered with the rusted old engine. Waylon decided not to needle him any more than necessary, and slipped quietly out of the garage.

He still hadn't explored the rest of the grounds properly. In addition to the barn-cum-garage there was a scattering of sheds which Waylon stuck his head into briefly, revealing more stocks of tools and junk, and a sturdier, small outbuilding that Waylon discovered to be a coal shed, although the coal heap inside it was dismally low. He made a mental note that they would probably have to start gathering firewood to burn instead if they wanted to stay warm in the upcoming winter.

With that thought in mind, he returned to the house. It was a crisp, warm autumnal day now, but the weather would soon start to turn. Waylon had to face the possibility that until he knew more about the situation with Murkoff, he could be stuck out here with Eddie for a while. It was October already, the nights were getting longer and soon there could be snow. There was already a bite in the air. He shielded his eyes from the low, bright sun and peered up at the house. It looked like a pile of firewood already, and he wouldn't be surprised if it fell down completely before the winter was over. With a sigh, he realised he would have to do something about the roof—if the rain got in that badly then how much worse would it be when a blizzard descended upon the house? He didn't need snowdrifts building up in the attic.

He went into the house and ventured upstairs. He checked the topmost room first, the sewing room that had once belonged to Catherine Gluskin. The room was drafty, and now Waylon looked closer he saw the mould collecting around the window frames, the condensation on the panes. The wind whistled through every tiny gap. Its roof seemed reasonably intact, though, so he moved down a floor. On the landing outside the master bedroom, he spied a hatch in the ceiling. He couldn't see a ladder anywhere, so he brought a chair up from downstairs to stand on. He got the hatch open, and pulled himself up into the roof-space. There wasn't a lot of space, and he instantly regretted not bringing a flashlight. He suspected nobody had been up here in years, possibly generations. The floor was just naked beams, with fragile boards in between that Waylon was sure would break beneath his weight. He hopped from beam to beam as he traversed the cramped, dark, cobweb-infested place. He heard pattering feet as he moved, and tried not to think about the other creatures he was sharing the house with. That proved difficult when he turned around a wooden pillar and disturbed a nest of birds, which flapped around in a panic before exiting through a gaping hole in the roof, flying off into the day. Waylon paused to inspect the hole. It was bigger than he had hoped. Not only had some of the shingles gone missing but the material beneath had either rotted or been torn away, letting in the cold wind, the rain, and all manner of wildlife.

He wouldn't be able to do a proper repair on damage this extensive, but there might be something he could do at least to shore it up enough to keep out the worst of the weather. He went back downstairs, found a flashlight, and made his way back up again. This time he carefully went around the whole of the roof-space to examine every spot of damage, identifying the worst areas that needed the most immediate attention.

He used to fix things up around the house all the time when he lived with Lisa. Lisa could be handy, but it was usually Waylon who did the heavier work while Lisa added the finishing touches. She had an eye for design and aesthetics that Waylon lacked. Thus, while he was no professional, he was reasonably confident he could do at least an adequate job.

He was able to find most of the tools he needed in the various sheds and storage spaces in and around the house. He worked through the afternoon and into the evening, still sweating away as the sun started to go down. When he needed to get to the outer side of the roof, he exited through the master bedroom window, which was a large sash window that he could fit through if he ducked low, and climbed up using the window ledge and guttering to give him purchase. He'd always been a good climber, and it had stood him in good stead at Mount Massive, where he undoubtedly would have died a dozen times over if he hadn't been able to scramble up and out of reach of the ones chasing him.

He got so lost in his work that he only realised how much time had passed when he heard Eddie calling for him.

"Darling?" With a jolt, Waylon realised he had been calling him for a while, and now there was an urgent edge in Eddie's voice, a certain growl of threat that sent Waylon's stomach flipping over in panic. He took a deep breath to calm himself. He could handle this. He could handle Eddie.

He peered over the side of the roof, carefully so he didn't slip on the old wooden shingles, and spied Eddie emerging from the house on the ground floor. He descended the porch steps and looked around the yard, frustration written in every line of his body.

"I'm up here!" Waylon called down. Eddie whirled around at once, his gaze snapping upward, seeking out and finding Waylon where he perched atop the roof. Waylon gave him a little wave. He smiled in spite of himself. Eddie's casual shirt was stained with grease, the long sleeves rolled up. He stared up at Waylon in silence for a long moment, gaping at him like he'd never seen him before. Waylon left his tools where they were and climbed down the outside of the house rather than traipse back through the inside, hopping from handhold to ledge with the grace of a mountain goat, impaired only slightly by his still-weak ankle.

"The roof is in a sorry state," he explained when his feet touched the ground. "I was just doing some repairs so we don't drown the next time it rains. There's already a lot of water damage…" He trailed off when he noticed the way Eddie was still staring at him. That was when he realised—or rather, remembered—that he had taken his shirt off as he had worked. It had been a warm day for so late in the year, and Waylon had worked up a sweat with the manual work. There'd been no one around, so he hadn't even thought about it. But now Eddie was raking his eyes over him, his brows drawn down low and his face tinged red. Waylon shifted his weight under Eddie's intense scrutiny, placing one hand on his hip and running the other through his shaggy hair. He was dressed in an old pair of jeans that had served him well since college and were a little on the ragged side. It occurred to him that he probably looked as far from a woman as it was possible to in his tatty, workaday jeans and his shirt off, the light of the setting sun gilding his skin, which glistened with sweat. He wasn't an idiot, he could work out what was going on in Eddie's head based on his dumbfounded expression. He was trying to reconcile the sight of the man in front of him with the image of the woman he believed Waylon to be that he held in his mind, and he was struggling.

"I, um…" Eddie cleared his throat. Waylon noticed his hesitancy, his little stumble. His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head, suddenly watching the big man very closely. He liked seeing Eddie on the back foot, even if he was liable to lash out at any moment. "I thought some refreshment was in order. I made some tea, it's in the kitchen…" His eyes wandered lower again. Waylon put both hands on his hips now and faced him, curious to see what he would do. Would he attack? He saw him swallow, hesitate… then he said, "Cover yourself. I know you're a shameless _whore,_ darling, but the very _least_ I expect is that you don't swan around outside the house half naked, exposing yourself to all and sundry."

"We're on our own out here," said Waylon breezily. He shrugged. "You're the only one who can see."

Eddie scowled. Waylon took his t-shirt from his back pocket and used it to dry off his shoulders and chest. Now he'd stopped working and the sun was going down, he was starting to feel the chill again. He would need to put on some more layers, but he was enjoying flustering Eddie rather more than was safe. It gave him a pleasant little rush to see the responses he could push out of him.

As he walked past Eddie, heading back into the house, he paused to pat his cheek. "Tea? How thoughtful. But I should take a shower first, I'm all sweaty. You're covered in grease, too." His hand dropped down to Eddie's, and he hooked one of the big man's fingers with his own. He led him up the porch steps, as easily as leading a puppy to heel. "You should join me."

* * *

It took Eddie a few days to fix the truck. Waylon didn't know if that was fast or slow, but when Eddie announced his success he made sure to make all the right noises of approval and look suitably impressed. It was still a rust-bucket, but it ran, and it wasn't the highly conspicuous red Jeep. Waylon spent that time working on the roof, and thankfully the weather held out, giving him sunny, dry days even if the nights were growing chilly.

Waylon kissed Eddie goodbye—Eddie insisted on it—and drove the beat up old truck down the mountain a ways to the nearest town. It was a small town, and Waylon was worried about standing out as an outsider, but luckily the town was built on a fairly busy through-road, so the inhabitants weren't curious about an unfamiliar face. He had found an old cap in the back of the truck, and he pulled it down over his brow just in case, wary of security cameras. No one asked him who he was, no one mentioned anything about anyone moving into the old Gluskin place. He went to the convenience store and used all but the last of the money from the house in Leadville to buy what he decided were essentials—eggs, bread, milk, some frozen meat, as many cheap dry and canned goods as he could afford, as well as bleach and fresh sponges for cleaning, and toothpaste, soap, and deodorant. He never wanted to endure the stink of the asylum ever again, he never again wanted to be that filthy. Most days he could still smell the rank odour of rotting bodies and old blood, even when he had left the place far behind, and he often had the urge to scrub himself raw and douse himself in scent to drown it out.

What they were going to do for money or supplies after this, Waylon had no idea. That would have to be a problem for the future. When he was more sure of surviving each twenty-four hours, then he would be able to plan further ahead, not before. Eddie seemed to be mellowing, but he never could tell with him. The slightest thing could set him off, and Waylon had to stay on his toes to know just which version of the man he was dealing with at any given time. The attentive, solicitous husband was one temper tantrum away from the murderous groom, but here and there he thought he got glimpses of the man beneath the madness. Waylon hoped there was enough of that person left to reconstruct, but he wouldn't hold his breath—besides, who was to say that man was any less of a monster than the one Murkoff made? The constant tension, the never knowing, the always walking one step away from a horrendous death was making Waylon reckless with his own life, and he had to remember to rein himself in and not get too cocky when dealing with Eddie. Even though Waylon might at times feel like his own life wasn't worth preserving, he owed Lisa and his children more than that. And besides, he didn't want to die until he was absolutely sure that Murkoff Corporation was a smoking ruin that could never rise up and hurt anyone ever again.

He returned to the house with the supplies without incident despite still seeing threats in every corner. Eddie did all the unloading, and Waylon, feeling strangely weightless with the relief of pulling off the errand successfully, danced around the kitchen to the radio and laughed when Eddie grabbed him and effortlessly drew him into a twirl. Waylon had only ever led, so he trod on Eddie's toes when he tried to guide him through a lively little dance. Eddie clicked his tongue and told him he had two left feet, but Waylon caught on quick. Another spin, and then Eddie dipped him low. He laughed, a little breathless, and found himself staring up into blue eyes like warm seas, the usual icy cold thawed for once. On a whim, Waylon leaned up and stole a quick kiss. Eddie brought them both back upright and wrapped his arms around Waylon, demanding a deeper, slower kiss, which Waylon gave.

Once all the supplies Waylon had bought were in place, Waylon announced that he was planning to cook an actual dinner that night, instead of simply heating up whatever can of something edible he could find. Waylon assembled the ingredients to make a simple enough dish, but a nutritious one—pasta with chicken in a tomato sauce. He had even splurged on buying herbs while he was out. He had no sooner started preparing the meal than Eddie surprised him by taking the little paring knife out of Waylon's hand. Waylon experienced a brief full-body thrill of fear, which perversely made him grin instead of prompting any _sensible_ reaction, but Eddie made no move to turn the knife on him, and instead turned to the counter and said, "Allow me to cook tonight, my love."

Eddie was wearing what looked like a new shirt, and when Waylon looked closely at it he could see the slightly uneven seams that told him Eddie had made it himself. So, he had been up to his mother's work room after all, had he? The fabric was a light blue chambray, more casual than what Waylon thought of as his preferred style but more formal than the clothes stolen from the Murkoff agent. It was clearly a compromise, which Waylon found charming somehow.

"Wait," Waylon said. "You don't want to splash anything on your new shirt, do you?" Eddie glanced down at his shirt as he was rolling up his sleeves. Waylon glanced past him, to where a white apron hung on a peg on the back of the kitchen door. "Here." He went over and fetched it, and offered it out to the other man. "This will protect it."

"So thoughtful," Eddie said absently. He ducked his head to let Waylon place the apron loop over his head and neck, and then Waylon moved behind him to tie the sash. "What ever would I do without you?"

Waylon gave a small smile as Eddie turned back to him.

 _Without me you would have died in the asylum_ , he thought, but he didn't say it. Eddie caught his chin in a gentle grip and kissed him.

"There," Waylon murmured as he stepped back. The apron was an old-fashioned style, with more frills and flounces than either of them would have chosen, but Eddie didn't seem to notice. He was still gazing adoringly at Waylon, whose lips twisted into a wicked smile. He liked the look of Eddie in frills. "You look handsome," he said.

Eddie smiled right back, and then got to work. Waylon took a seat on one of the kitchen chairs and watched as the former patient moved around the kitchen as though he was born to it. He had a strange kind of grace, Waylon thought, and when he was in good humour it was hard for Waylon to pull his eyes away from him. He rested his elbow on the kitchen table, his chin in his hand

"I didn't get much chance to cook while I was inside," Eddie said as he sliced vegetables with effortless flare and precision. Waylon watched him handle the blade and felt a perverse stirring between his legs. It wasn't the Murkoff agent's combat knife, but it was still sharp. "I miss it."

"You are a man of many talents," Waylon said. Eddie appeared not to notice the edge in his voice. "Did you cook a lot before?"

"Oh, I was quite proficient. Hardly a professional, but more than adequate."

"I'm ashamed to say I never learned the art," Waylon admitted. "Unless you count frozen dinners and take-out, in which case those are my specialities."

"Well, that will all change now, of course," Eddie said offhandedly. "A good wife cooks for her family, as I'm sure you're aware. You want to be a good wife, don't you?"

"I'm a fucking excellent wife," Waylon said. "Who else could fuck you like I do?"

Eddie froze in the middle of slicing a tomato. Waylon watched the tension of his back, unconsciously touching the tip of his tongue to his teeth.

"Besides," he went on, suicidally, "I don't need to cook, not when you're this good at it."

The point of the paring knife came down into the chopping board with a soft _thunk_ and Eddie turned. His hand was still around the knife's handle. His eyes pierced Waylon just as effectively as the knife ever could.

"We've spoken about your foul mouth already," Eddie said, smooth and soft as velvet. Waylon felt his blood rush south. "Too many times to count, in fact."

"The pasta's boiling over," Waylon pointed out. Eddie ignored him. He advanced on Waylon, bringing the knife with him. Waylon's breath caught as he watched it catch the light. Eddie brandished it in Waylon's face, then brought the pointed tip beneath his chin and tilted his head up. Waylon met Eddie's eyes and slowly rose to his feet. Eddie kept the knife where it was, pressed to the underside of Waylon's jaw just lightly enough to not break the skin. Eddie was breathing hard through his nose, his body taut as a bowstring. Waylon knew that terrible tension could only be released in one of two ways, and it was up to him to nudge Eddie toward one or the other. He held very still.

"I won't tell you again, darling," Eddie said. His voice was like a soft, dangerous caress. "I expect better of you, and most of all I expect you to _obey_ -"

"I've saved your life more than once," Waylon growled. "I've _killed_ to protect you. I've kept you by my side every step of the way, even when it would probably be safer to split up, not to mention it's _my_ money that's kept us both fed and with places to sleep. And I let you fuck me every night, and I _know_ you know it's good. How many of your other failed brides can say all that? So yeah, maybe I have a dirty mouth sometimes, but I know for a fact you enjoy my dirty mouth just fine when you're shoving your cock down it. "

Eddie gave a strangled growl and his hand, the hand not holding the knife, wrapped around Waylon's neck. Eddie's scarred lips drew back to bare his teeth. "Open that whore mouth," he snarled. "If you can't watch your filthy tongue I'll cut it out of you, you crazy bitch." When Waylon didn't respond, he shook him. Waylon's head snapped back and forth, prompting a hiss of pain, and then Eddie was looming over him, his hand closing tighter around his throat and the sharp little knife pressing at Waylon's mouth, already slicing his lower lip.

Waylon sneered even as he was cut, even as Eddie blocked off his air supply. He pulled the Murkoff agent's gun from the back of his waistband, where it had been hidden beneath his sweater since before he left for town, and tapped the end of the barrel against Eddie's thigh. Eddie paused in his efforts to pry Waylon's jaws open and looked down, and then he held himself very still. His already pale skin turned stark white. Waylon heard his little intake of breath and let a grin spread across his face. He craned his neck to get away from the knife, and licked the blood from his lacerated lips.

"I don't appreciate that kind of language, Eddie. It's disrespectful, and frankly I deserve better. Now, unless you want me to shoot your dick off I suggest you let me go."

Eddie hesitated, and then spat, "You little idiot. I could take that thing from you in a second."

"And I could pull the trigger even faster than that," Waylon said without missing a beat. They glared at one another. Waylon knew Eddie could snap his neck like a twig, he could drive that little knife into his jugular, or anywhere, and end his life in agonising pain with barely an effort. But Waylon thought Eddie also knew that Waylon wouldn't hesitate to shoot. Eddie had watched Waylon kill a man already, he hadn't hesitated then. Why would he waste breath on idle threats now? He watched the wheels turn in the big man's head, and thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of holding the dreaded Groom in his power for once.

"Well, Eddie?" he said, when Eddie didn't respond quick enough. "What's it going to be? Don't you want to be beautiful?"

Time dragged by, slow as molasses, and the pair of them seemed suspended in it. Then all of a sudden Eddie exploded into motion, and for an instant Waylon expected to feel the bite of the knife, but Eddie only stabbed it into the table behind him and then grabbed Waylon's neck with both hands. He pulled him into a hard kiss, shoving his tongue down Waylon's throat like he was trying to move into his body. Waylon let his hand lower, though he didn't let go of the gun. He fisted his other hand in Eddie's apron, and returned the kiss with just as much fervour.

Eddie pressed his body up against Waylon's, crushing Waylon against the edge of the table. "Your clit's all swollen," he remarked, glancing down. Waylon flushed. True enough, his dick was hard as a rock. "Does that mean you're wet for me?" Eddie lifted Waylon onto the table and pressed himself in between his legs. "Minx, you love to rile me up…"

"Maybe I do," Waylon admitted. He was about to say more, when he became aware of a terrible smell. "Oh shit. Eddie, the food, it's burning."

"Hm?" Eddie turned reluctantly from Waylon. Waylon pushed at him.

"Don't burn the house down. Then where will we stay?" Grumbling, Eddie moved the pans off the heat and turned off the stove. Waylon hopped down from the table and joined him at the cooker to inspect the damage. "Can we salvage it?"

Eddie looked mournfully at the burnt food. He seemed more upset at that than at nearly having his cock blown off. He wouldn't look at Waylon, and he clutched the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles turned white. Waylon noticed the former patient was breathing faster than normal, and not from excitement.

"Eddie…? Look, it's not so bad. See? These bits look okay. We can fix it. I'll take care of it for you…"

Eddie took a deep breath in and then shook his head as though to clear it. "Don't… Don't mollycoddle me, darling, I'm perfectly capable-"

"If we can bury a body together we can fix dinner together, too," said Waylon. "Come on, we shouldn't waste anything." He clicked the safety back on the gun and tucked it back away, out of sight. He took over scraping blackened food from the pans and saving what still looked edible, and Eddie helped him, meek as a lamb.

Later, when they were lying in their bed by the fire and all around the house was quiet and dark, Eddie asked him, "Do you even know how to use that thing?"

Waylon smiled. "Of course. Lisa taught me, and she's a great shot."

"I'd feel more comfortable if I looked after it for you."

"I'm sure you would. But Eddie, you're so much bigger and stronger than me, you can handle yourself if it comes to a fight. What can I do if more of Murkoff's assassins come after me and you're not there to protect me? You wouldn't want to leave me defenceless, would you?"

"You're a manipulative little cunt, and not half as smart as you think you are," Eddie said affectionately. He wrapped his arms more tightly around Waylon's body.

"What did I say about language?"

"Why wouldn't I be there?" said Eddie, ignoring him. "I'll always be there to protect you-"

"What if something happens to you?"

"It won't."

"It might." Waylon held Eddie's face between his hands and stared into his eyes. "We're in this shitty situation together, that means we have to look out for each other. And you looking out for me means making sure I can defend myself."

Eddie was silent for a while, frowning, and then he said softly, "Is it really all that bad?"

"What?"

"This situation. You and me…" Eddie took one of Waylon's hands in his own and brought it to his mouth, where he brushed his lips against Waylon's knuckles. "For me it's a dream come true."

Waylon had to bite his tongue. He said, "I meant the part where people are trying to kill us."

"Ah, yes. Well, that's nothing new."

Waylon thought about it for a second, and then broke into a fit of laughter. "No," he said. "You're right, I guess it's not."

* * *

The rain returned in force later that night. There hadn't been a cloud in the sky all day, but Waylon was awoken past midnight by a full-blown storm. He didn't know if it was normal weather for the time of year, but he was hugely glad he had made some progress with the roof. Regretfully he pulled himself from the warmth of the nest he shared with Eddie by the fire, which was guttering due to the wind coming down the chimney, and into the cold house. He found his flashlight and took it with him now as he crept through the dark house, up the creaking stairs, to check on the various leaks. He emptied all the buckets and bowls he was using to catch the drips down the sink and then replaced them. He considered going up to the attic to check on his repairs, but a particularly loud rumble of thunder discouraged him, paired with the persistent cold that was pebbling his skin with goosebumps and making him shiver so badly the beam of the flashlight jumped around wildly. He decided he would venture up in the morning and just trust the repairs would hold for now. There wasn't much he could do in the middle of the night in a thunderstorm, anyway.

When he returned to the living room he wandered to the window at the front of the room which looked out at the yard. The night sky was obscured by the pelting rain, but he could see the trees around the yard shaking crazily, the whole view seemed painted in blurry shades of grey. Lightning flashed, and a second later thunder shook the house. The storm was right above them. Never mind leaks—he'd be lucky if the whole roof didn't get torn off.

"Come back to bed, love." Eddie's voice came from behind him, and Waylon looked over his shoulder to see the man watching him from the pool of dull golden light by the fire. Waylon left the curtains open and tip-toed back to him.

Eddie lay on his back, watching Waylon with eyes that glinted like chips of ice in the dark. Waylon climbed back under the blankets. Eddie rolled onto his side and Waylon fitted his body against his, letting Eddie enclose him in the circle of his arms and gratefully stealing his body heat. The fire had died down and the room was chilly, but Eddie was warm. Waylon nuzzled closer, closed his eyes, and tried not to let the furious roaring of the thunder become hammering fists against a door or pounding footsteps chasing him down. The asylum haunted him still, even now he had taken a piece of it away and made it his own.

Eddie was still half in the grip of sleep, and he was already dozing off again even as his arms tightened around Waylon. His embrace was unthinkingly possessive, always a little too hard and a little too tight, but in the middle of the night with the storm raging outside, Waylon was glad of it. He felt shielded.

Thunder crashed again, and the hardened patter against the windows told Waylon the rain had turned to hail. Waylon didn't know how Eddie could sleep through all this noise. He had always slept soundly at the asylum, too, all the nights Waylon had spent tense and awake beside him, fading in and out of semi-consciousness, too petrified to abandon his senses entirely lest he wake up missing pieces. Eddie had snored contentedly for hours, as though the horrors beyond his little home concerned him not a whit. He had been in his element, the biggest fish in that foetid pond—the other inmates feared _him_ , and he himself had nothing to fear. Until Waylon crashed into his territory and set everything on its head.

If Waylon had been a little slower to react that night, the Murkoff Tactical goons would have killed Eddie.

They probably would have got him next, of course, but Waylon had spent so many hours wishing he had been just a little bit slower.

Tonight, at least in this strange, midnight moment, Waylon didn't regret saving the monster.

He tilted his head and nuzzled Eddie's jaw, and Eddie responded without really waking, kissing back when Waylon pressed his lips to his, his hands moving up and down Waylon's back. As if moving on instinct alone, Eddie eased Waylon onto his back and rolled on top of him. Waylon brought his hands up to Eddie's hair, the long strands no longer combed into sleek perfection but falling across his brow like a liquid shadow. He woke up a little when Waylon pulled his hair gently, and Waylon greeted him with a tight little smile.

"I'm scared of the thunder," Waylon said.

"Mmm. My poor darling. I'll protect you." Eddie curled around Waylon's far smaller form, and perversely Waylon did feel protected. Eddie kissed him again, and as his tongue slid against Waylon's he rubbed his hardening cock back and forth against Waylon's belly. Waylon's body responded, being well-trained by now.

No, he couldn't even use that excuse any more. He'd initiated this. He wanted this. He could have let Eddie sleep, but he just couldn't go a single night without him inside…

He wrapped his legs around Eddie's hips and rocked against him. He was a spoilt brat who would tease and push until he got his way. How did he ever become this? If Lisa could see him now, she wouldn't know him. But then, was he really the same person she had loved any more? The things he had seen and experienced had changed him. He _felt_ like a different person. The Waylon Park who took the job at Murkoff Corporation because of the enticing paycheck felt like a stranger to him now. Lisa could never understand what went on in that awful place, she could never understand the choices Waylon had had to make. Only someone who was there could know what it was truly like.

Eddie had been there. Eddie understood.

Eddie had been a part of it, but somehow that was less important right now than the fact Waylon didn't have to lie or to conceal any part of the horror. Despite the pretence of their sham marriage, Waylon felt he could be honest with Eddie in a way he couldn't with someone else, someone whom Waylon would be hurting just by sharing the truth of his experiences.

"What do you need, my love?" Eddie mumbled. Sleepy Eddie was gentler than the usual Eddie. This was the version of him that Waylon liked the best. His soft touches did more to convince Waylon that the man might actually care for him than any of his old-fashioned manners or declarations of love.

Waylon reached down and palmed Eddie's cock. "This," he whispered.

"You are shameless," Eddie said, but the way he said it, it felt like a compliment. He liked it when Waylon touched him. Waking up now, he said, "You must be patient, though, my darling love." He bit at Waylon's neck, and then rose up off him. Waylon missed his heat and weight immediately, but didn't resist when Eddie turned him over. Eddie moved back, settled on his knees astride Waylon's calves and pulled Waylon's hips upwards so his ass was in the air, his legs pressed coyly together. Eddie made an appreciative noise and massaged Waylon's buttocks with his large, warm hands. He moved further back, spread Waylon wider apart, and then Waylon felt the wet warmth of his tongue on his asshole. Waylon sighed, relaxed down into the nest of pillows and blankets, and gave himself up to his Groom's affections.

"You always taste so sweet, darling," Eddie said. His voice was breathy and a little hoarse. The sound of it made Waylon's toes curl. "Are you wet for me?"

"W-what?"

Eddie bit one of Waylon's buttocks, then licked and kissed his way back into the cleft between them.

"I said are you wet for me?" Eddie's voice had taken on a crooning tone, and he massaged Waylon's buttocks, keeping them apart with his thumbs. "We never finished what we started in the kitchen. Is your filthy pussy dripping just for me?"

"Ah…" Waylon felt himself tense, twitch. He arched his back, his hands buried in the soft blankets. "It's not… filthy…"

Eddie licked a long swipe all the way up Waylon's cleft. "No?"

Waylon made himself lift his head, twisting his body a little so he could look back at Eddie. "No. I'm not some slut, Eddie. I'm your wife."

Eddie blinked. Then he crawled over Waylon, pressing his hips down and claiming his mouth in a kiss.

"That's… that's true, isn't it?" he breathed. He rocked his body gently against Waylon's, and Waylon relished the heat and weight of him, solid and real. "My _wife_ …"

Waylon rolled over, not easy with Eddie pinning him down, but Eddie lifted himself up on his arms to allow Waylon to face him. He wrapped his arms around Eddie's waist and welcomed him down into the cradle made by his body. Eddie sank down and kissed him again. There was something uncharacteristically hesitant about Eddie's kisses tonight—it felt like he was holding himself back for some reason. Waylon kneaded his back and tried to encourage him by deepening the kiss himself, sliding his tongue deeper into Eddie's mouth and arching upwards so his chest pressed hotly against the other man's. Eddie groaned and seemed to catch on. His hands came to Waylon's head, fingers threading through his too-long locks, and his tongue pressed against Waylon's. It was infinitely better this way, Waylon thought—meeting halfway and sliding indulgently together, sharing pleasure instead of Eddie simply taking what he wanted. Maybe Eddie felt the same way, because Waylon could feel his erection rubbing insistently against him now. He parted his legs and squeezed his thighs against Eddie's waist.

"Mother of my child," Eddie murmured. He reared up, sitting on his haunches and gazing adoringly down at Waylon. He ran his hands down Waylon's body all the way to his hips, and then caressed his way up and down his legs. "You really are beautiful," he said. "So elegant…" He slid his hands back up to Waylon's hips and gripped firmly, pulling Waylon against him so his cock slid between Waylon's buttocks. Waylon found it hard to breathe. He was spread out beneath the madman, voluntarily this time, arguably at his mercy. He was hard, and his cock was on full display, but Eddie's gaze slid over it, not seeming to acknowledge the throbbing and very obvious evidence of Waylon's maleness right in front of his face. Waylon wished he would touch it, even as he also dreaded drawing Eddie's attention to it.

He had touched it before. Waylon wasn't thinking of his aborted surgery attempt now, no, he was thinking of those stolen moments in the motel, after Eddie had fucked him good and hard and had been dozing at his back, his hands wandering. Eddie had been more than half asleep, but he had found Waylon's cock and stroked it with no pretence. There _was_ a part of Eddie that knew what Waylon was, but that part was buried in his waking hours, overruled and overridden by layers of delusion and hatred, and cracking through to it might mean Waylon's death. Waylon found himself craving that part of him nonetheless—found himself yearning to be wanted as he was, not as Eddie wanted him to be, to be seen and loved for himself, not as a stand-in for an ideal bride that could never truly exist. And he hated himself for wanting any of it at all.

He covered his face with his hands and began to turn away, desire souring and turning to shame.

He had to remember that he _was_ loved for who he was—he had a wife who loved him, and whom he adored, and every day and every night he betrayed her.

Eddie's hands closed around his wrists and pulled his hands away from his face.

"Darling?"

"I'm not… I'm not your darling," Waylon choked. He didn't want to look at Eddie, didn't want to see those wide blue eyes staring down at him in uncomprehending concern.

"What do you mean…?"

Waylon knew the knife's edge he balanced on, knew how close the divide between Eddie's love and his his violent rage. He risked that rage now, but in this moment he almost didn't care. Let Eddie kill him if he wanted to. He wouldn't have to continue this exhausting charade that was, little by little and day by day, draining him of everything he had.

He strained upward until his lips met Eddie's. This kiss was soft and short, but the moment Waylon began to sink down again Eddie chased after him and stole his breath with another, far deeper and more passionate one.

"You'll always be my darling," he said when he finally allowed Waylon to breathe. "I love you."

 _You don't_ , Waylon thought. _You don't love me, I don't love you. This is all pretend, it's all a sham. But it's nice to hear the words, I guess_.

"I love you too," Waylon lied.

Eddie wrapped Waylon in a tight embrace and pressed his face against Waylon's hair, taking a deep breath of his scent. His hips moved back and forth, his dick sliding against Waylon's warm, sweat-slick skin. Waylon reached out. The bottle of lubricant nestled in the blankets, forgotten after a previous lovemaking session.

"Here," he whispered. He tapped the bottle against Eddie's shoulder to alert him, and Eddie released his tight hold on him just enough to grab the bottle and flick it open with his thumb. He poured it generously over his cock and Waylon's ass. Waylon hissed and instinctively flinched away from the sudden cool sensation, but Eddie held his hips and dragged him back into place.

"Where do you think you're going?" Eddie teased.

"It's cold."

Eddie leered down at him, looking far too pleased with himself. "I'll warm you up," he said. He kissed Waylon at the same time as he pushed two fingers into Waylon's slippery entrance. Waylon hooked an arm around Eddie's neck and held him close, his kiss turning aggressive and biting. Eddie growled in response and fingered him a little harder, enough to make Waylon yelp. True enough, Waylon warmed up quickly, and he began to luxuriate in the lavishly slick, indulgent feeling of Eddie's thick fingers sliding in and out of him. He wanted more than that, though. He felt hollow, empty, lost. He clung tighter onto Eddie and bucked his hips up towards him.

"Fill me up," he gasped. "Do it."

"Oh, the things you say, my love… naughty, beautiful girl…"

Eddie pulled his fingers out of Waylon and grabbed beneath Waylon's knees, lifting the younger man's legs onto his massive shoulders. Bent in two, Waylon stared up at him in awe and no little trepidation. He swallowed thickly, feeling exposed and in danger. Eddie only had eyes for Waylon's face, though. Even as he fitted his cock to Waylon's entrance he gazed adoringly into Waylon's eyes, a dreamy smile upon his face that would have been comical if not for the very real and very powerful mass of his body above Waylon's and the hard, thick rod he was pushing into Waylon's ass. Waylon was used to the sensation of being filled, but it was still a stretch, still tight every time. The lubricant eased the way and allowed Eddie to sink all the way inside in a smooth downward slide until his pelvis pressed against Waylon's and his balls rested against Waylon's ass. Eddie turned his head just enough to press a kiss to Waylon's calf, and then leaned down, forcing Waylon to bend all the way, and kissed his lips. Waylon trembled beneath him and looped both arms around his neck to keep him in place as he messily kissed him back.

It felt deeper like this, _more_ somehow. Eddie was gentle to begin with, but he soon worked his way up to his usual intensity. Waylon was helpless beneath him, and all he could do was hold on for dear life. He was being speared, being split in two, he felt thoroughly taken and owned. He let Eddie plough him until he felt like he was going to fly apart and then he couldn't take any more.

"S-stop!" he cried, although he barely had the breath to speak at all. "Eddie, stop!"

"What? Not a chance-"

Waylon pushed at him, but it was like pushing at a brick wall. He wriggled under Eddie's bulk, and Eddie responded by giving a savage grin and grinding into him harder. Waylon snarled and scratched his nails across Eddie's chest.

"Get off me, I wanna ride you!"

" _Oh_ …" Eddie kissed him, hot and smothering as always, and then the next instant he was rearing back onto his knees and lifting Waylon bodily until Waylon found himself astride Eddie's lap.

"Lie back," Waylon said after catching his breath. They stayed connected even as Eddie repositioned himself, Eddie holding Waylon steadily in place with strong hands on the younger man's back. Waylon pressed his palms against Eddie's chest, digging his nails in just because he could. Eddie didn't seem to mind, and in fact grinned up at him and pumped his hips with renewed aggression. "No, mm… n-no, lie still. Let me."

Eddie groaned and tilted his head back. He gave Waylon's hips a squeeze and then brought his hands to rest on his thighs instead. Waylon bit his lip, and had to close his eyes to block out the laser focus of Eddie's eyes on him. He started by moving back and forth. This felt different again. No longer could he claim to be a passive victim of Eddie's consuming passion. This was no longer happening _to_ him, he was making it happen. That thought had an unexpected effect on him, and he had to clamp a hand around the base of his cock and hold himself very still for several seconds to avoid coming immediately. When the immediate danger was passed he dared to start moving again. He tried to lift himself up and lower down again, then repeated the motion. His mouth fell open, and he ended up opening his eyes and meeting Eddie's gaze once more. The awe-struck look on Eddie's face hadn't gone away, and now he looked flushed and his pupils were blown.

"That's it, such a good girl," he murmured in a hushed, worshipful tone. "Fuck yourself on me, nasty whore…"

Waylon grinned in spite of himself. He felt like a nasty whore, like a beautiful slut — he felt desirable like he never had before, and strangely powerful too. He sat up straighter, causing the angle of Eddie's cock to shift within him. He stroked himself with one hand and used the other to play with his nipples. Eddie watched his every move, somehow managing to look like both a rapt worshipper and a ravenous predator all at once. Waylon liked when Eddie looked at him like that, like he wanted to eat him up.

"Rub yourself, there's a good girl. Look at you, like you were born for this. You _were_ born for this, weren't you?"

"Born to fuck you?" Waylon said breathlessly.

"Oh _yes_ ," Eddie grinned up at him. "You were born to take my cock, you were made for me, my beautiful, insatiable, _filthy_ little girl." The craziest part was that in that moment, with Eddie's cock filling him so completely and the pleasure so intense, Waylon almost felt like the madman was right. "You're all mine, aren't you? You know it's true-"

"If it is true, then you were made for me," Waylon panted. "You were… you were made for me too. That means you're m-mine…?"

"I can't deny it, my love," Eddie said. "I'm yours. You had my heart the first moment I saw you, now you have my mind, body, and soul as well." Waylon laughed at Eddie's overblown language even as he was powerless to control the effect his words had on his body. His mouth fell open and his hips jerked erratically, his body tightening around Eddie's cock. His breath came in short gasps, and he looked desperately at Eddie, no doubt looking just as lost as he felt. Eddie pulled him down against him and wrapped his arms around his trembling body, kept his eyes locked with Waylon's, and whispered, "Let it happen, my love. Surrender. I want to see you come undone."

"Y-you first," Waylon sobbed, using his last shred of willpower to hold himself back, to make himself wait, just a little more… One of his hands found its way to Eddie's hair. He ran his fingers through the dark strands before gripping and pulling gently, nails raking his scalp. He licked at Eddie's lips, and said, "You come for me first."

Eddie did. It seemed to take him by surprise, if the look on his face was anything to go by. His hips snapped up quick enough to make Waylon bounce, and then Waylon felt him shoot his hot, thick seed inside him. Filling him up.

"That's it, baby," he babbled. "That's so good, yes…" With a blissful moan he finally gave in to the onslaught of pleasure and came on Eddie's cock. "Oh, _fuck_ -!"

Eddie swallowed the rest of Waylon's cries with a kiss.

When both their climaxes had passed, Eddie rolled them onto their sides. Exhausted, they fell asleep still wrapped in each other's arms, Eddie's cock still inside of Waylon's ass. As Waylon was falling back asleep, he stroked Eddie's hair, and Eddie pressed his face against Waylon's neck to breathe in his scent. The thunder had ceased now, but the hail continued to drum against the windows and roof. That and the howling of the wind formed a lullaby, and when Waylon succumbed to sleep he suffered no more bad dreams that night.

* * *

In spite of his late night, Waylon was up early in the morning. The storm had run its course and left the yard in a state of devastation. Waylon stood on the porch wrapped in a blanket and sipping hot coffee from an old melamine mug. There was mist in the air, and the sky was light grey. Birds chirped and cawed in the forest around the house, and Waylon watched some of them wheeling above the tree line. He felt strangely calm, as though the storm had blown through him as well and left a profound, if eerie, peace in its wake.

After a while, Eddie joined him. He was dressed in the blue shirt from the previous day with the jeans stolen from the Murkoff assassin, although he hadn't bothered to button up either. His hair was still mussed from the night before. He had a mug in one hand and the stainless steel coffee pot in the other. Waylon held his cup out for a refill, and then Eddie set the pot on the porch railing. They stood side by side, sipping coffee and watching the world come awake around them.

After a while, Eddie fished something out of his pocket and turned to Waylon.

"I wanted to apologise," he said. Waylon raised his eyebrows and turned toward him. "When we first met, everything moved so fast. I know you don't regret how things worked out, and truly I don't either, not when it all led to being here with you now, but… I do have one regret."

 _I have to hear this_ , Waylon thought, before glancing down to the object Eddie had in his hand. It was a small box covered with navy velvet. _Oh, no… No._

Eddie set his mug next to the coffee pot and turned fully to face Waylon. Waylon clutched his own mug in front of him like a talisman.

"I should have done this a long time ago, before making an honest woman of you. I was just so eager to know you, to join with you and start our life together… but that's no excuse. I always promised myself I would do this properly."

Slowly, he sank to one knee.

 _Don't do this_ , Waylon silently begged, at the same time as his stomach gave a schoolgirl flutter.

He remembered proposing to Lisa. It was many years ago now, and he had been young and dumb and not nearly as romantic as he should have been. They had been dating for years, had known each other years longer than that, and everything had flowed so naturally and easily that marrying had seemed like a foregone conclusion. He'd popped the question on the spur of the moment in the middle of a conversation, too casually in hindsight, and Lisa had laughed and said, "Oh all right, I guess I may as well." They'd gone out to choose a ring together a week later, and settled on the cheapest one they could find because neither of them had much spare cash.

A proposal was supposed to be a romantic occasion.

Standing there on the porch as the sun came up, the mist still clinging to the ground and the birds singing, and Eddie looking like that with his hair falling over his brow and his eyes so very, very blue… it _was_ fucking romantic. Damn it all to hell.

The ring Eddie revealed when he opened the little velvet box was nothing like the modest, modern one Lisa had picked. This was showy and old-fashioned, but even Waylon's untrained eye could tell it was fine quality. Diamond and sapphires on a yellow gold band, a little tarnished by age but still bright enough to tell it was all the real deal.

"It was my mother's," Eddie said. "Lucky it was still hidden away. Everyone thinks the old Gluskin house is haunted so nobody comes up here, not even to rob the place," he added with a rueful smile. He held the ring box up to Waylon, gazing up at him with clear blue eyes and a hopeful look upon his face that made him appear almost boyish. "My darling, my Waylon, would you do me the honour of making me the happiest man in the world? Say you'll spend the rest of your life by my side."

Waylon had no choice. He gave a shaky nod, put his cup down, and held his hand out. The ring was far too small for him, having been made for a much daintier hand. Eddie slipped it onto Waylon's pinkie as a compromise. He was beaming, his harsh, scarred face transformed by joy until he looked almost handsome. He surged to his feet and engulfed Waylon in a tight hug, then kissed him. No, Waylon thought as Eddie drew back and smiled down at him—there was no almost about it.

Waylon examined his feelings. He felt… _happy_? He held up his hand to inspect the ring, admired the way the gemstones caught the light. He looked back up at Eddie and returned his smile. He looped his arms around Eddie's neck and pulled him down into another kiss. The blanket slipped from his shoulders, and he pressed himself into the circle of Eddie's arms for warmth.

"All right," he said softly, lips brushing against Eddie's as he spoke. "I guess… I guess I may as well."


	6. Apparition

It wasn't until Waylon went to do another load of laundry that he found the slip of paper that had fallen out of the photo album the last time he was in the basement. He found it when he was checking his pants pockets before loading the washing machine. He had forgotten all about it, but now he unfolded it carefully, smoothed it out on top of the washing machine lid, and frowned down at the lines of curling, feminine handwriting. It looked to be a page from a diary. He moved closer to the light bulb and held it up to read it.

 _It's so beautiful here. Idyllic. It's like a fairy tale, like a dream come true. I can see us building our family here, and for the first time I feel a real sense of_ home _. Whatever doubts I might have had before, they're gone now._

 _Mother wrote to me before the wedding, begging me one last time to call it off. She says Ned is beneath me, that it wasn't too late to go back to that insipid boy Mother and Father picked out for me. I didn't reply, and they didn't come to the wedding. It's definitely too late now._

 _I don't care what my family says. We may come from different worlds, but Ned is a good man. I love him and he loves me. He's been through so much and deserves everything I can give him. I know we can make it work, and the little one on the way will finally complete our little family. It's all going to be_ perfect _._

 _I felt the baby kick for the first time yesterday. Ned wants to name him after himself, to keep the name in the family. I can't wait to meet him, I already love him so much. My own little Edward._

Waylon turned the page over, but there was nothing on the back but rows and rows of signatures — a couple of Catherine Lentons, and lots of Catherine Gluskins. It seemed Eddie's mother had been practising signing her newly married name. After casting a glance towards the basement stairs to check Eddie wasn't on his way down looking for him, Waylon returned to the shelf of photo albums. He found the album he had been looking at before and slipped the page back into it, at the very back. Then he took a minute to look through some of the others. Most of them held stiff, old photographs of people Waylon didn't recognise, or else contained only one or two actual snaps and many empty pages. Towards the end of the shelf he found a handful of framed photos that must have been up on display at some point. Most were older, and depicted stern, unknown faces in dim sepia or black and white. One showed Eddie's parents on their wedding day. The glass on this one was broken, and Waylon shook the shards away so he could clearly see the faded picture underneath. Mr and Mrs Gluskin stood outside a church, arm in arm. Edward's expression was happy, almost triumphant. Catherine was visibly pregnant, and wore a flowing dress made of gossamer layers of white lace and chiffon. He had never seen quite such a design before, and he had to wonder if she had sewn it herself. Her hair was unbound, and a wreath of flowers sat atop her head. She was smiling. She looked very, very young—she couldn't have been more than nineteen.

He remembered his own wedding day. Not the travesty Eddie had subjected him to, but his real wedding day, when he had committed himself to spending his life with the woman he loved. His and Lisa's wedding had been a beautiful event, like something straight out of a wedding magazine. Lisa's sister, Megan, had taken care of most of the planning and organising, although Lisa herself had made sure to have a big hand in it as well. Waylon had been content to sit back and let the women sort it out, happy to give his opinion when it was wanted—these flowers or those, vanilla cake or lemon—and otherwise stick to simply showing up. In retrospect he regretted not being more involved. It had been held at a picturesque old hotel set in beautiful grounds, and the ceremony itself had been held outdoors in a garden that had smelled of roses and honeysuckle. It had been a summer wedding, all blue skies and sparkling wine. Lisa's whole clan had turned out for the event, as had Waylon's mother and step-father. His biological father had not bothered to make himself known, but Waylon hadn't cared, not really. Waylon's oldest friend had given a terrible speech at the reception, and Waylon had managed to lead Lisa through their first dance without treading on her dress or falling over. He remembered he had been so nervous he had got the steps all wrong, but Lisa had smiled at him and somehow managed to make it all look effortless and intentional. That was Lisa through and through, he thought with a pang of longing; always covering for him, always covering his back.

The person who had tripped his way through his first dance and then spent the rest of the evening getting so drunk he couldn't even fulfil his husbandly duties on his wedding night felt like a stranger to Waylon now. Had he ever been so oblivious and carefree? It had been a simpler time in his life, a time when the thought of running for his life from psychopaths and evil corporations wouldn't have crossed his mind, let alone taking another human life.

He missed being that person.

* * *

Time passed, each day like the last, and before Waylon knew it those days had turned to weeks and October became November. The days became shorter, the nights long and cold, and in the mornings the ground was silvered with frost. Eddie and Waylon settled into a rhythm together, and for better or worse their uneasy truce held. Waylon continued to clean and fix up the house, although Eddie insisted on helping with the heavier work. He had to concede when it came to the roof and other hard to reach places, as he simply didn't have the younger man's agility. He absolutely refused to allow Waylon to help him gather and chop firewood, though, beyond picking up light twigs to use as kindling. Waylon didn't mind so much. More than once Eddie caught Waylon ogling him as he chopped logs for the fire, stocking up in readiness for the even colder weather to come. Dimly, Waylon was aware he probably shouldn't trust Eddie with an axe, but without firewood they would both freeze when the coal ran out, so he enjoyed the view and continued about his day. Eddie liked the attention, even though he called Waylon a wanton slut for looking.

The first snow came in late November. It fell during the night, so Waylon went to bed one evening and awoke the next morning to a world blanketed in white. The forest was transformed, the yard outside the house an unmarred expanse of virgin white. The evergreens had a thick dusting of snow on their boughs, and the world was beautifully quiet. After gazing out the window for a while, Waylon pulled on the warmest clothes he could find and a half-perished pair of rubber rain boots and went outside. Eddie was still drowsily rolling out of bed as Waylon descended the porch steps, his feet crunching the snow beneath them and his breath fogging in front of his face.

After a couple of minutes, Waylon heard him catch up. "Darling…? Where are you- _Oh_."

Waylon turned and smiled. "Pretty, huh?" He spread his arms. The sky above was white, promising yet more snow on the way.

"Come back inside, you'll catch your death." Eddie had one of the blankets draped over his shoulders like a cloak and looked ridiculous. Waylon laughed, and Eddie was too charmed by Waylon's happiness to take offence. "You're all pink," Eddie said as he joined Waylon at the bottom of the steps. He touched a finger to Waylon's reddened nose. Waylon gave him a devious grin, and then, on a crazy whim, bent and grabbed a handful of snow. He splatted it into Eddie's face and immediately darted away. When he turned back to look, Eddie was blinking in surprise.

"Are you going to let that stand?" Waylon challenged, still jogging backwards. He spread his arms out wide and then reached down and started gathering a bigger snowball between his two hands.

"You-" Eddie's eyes were wide with shock, but then his face broke into a smile. "Oho, you're in for it now!" He sank into a crouch and began to scoop huge handfuls of snow together to form a big snowball. Waylon took his own snowball and ran. He was laughing, but there was something hectic in his laughter, and more than a little real fear thrumming through him as he fled and Eddie chased. He turned and let his snowball fly. Eddie ducked it, and hurled his own, larger one in Waylon's direction. Waylon turned away but it caught him in his back with a stinging impact, exploding into a cloud of white powder. Waylon was already gathering up more snow for a return strike.

They chased one another around the yard, Waylon's speed pitted against Eddie's powerful throws, each of them laughing like boys. Waylon dashed around the rear of the house and hid behind trees and outbuildings, his heart beating out of his chest as Eddie stalked after him, calling out to try and coax him out of his hiding spots. Waylon waited until Eddie passed nearby and then he leapt out behind him, lobbed a snowball at him at close range, and then sprinted away again.

Their game of chase took them beyond the house and into the woods, where the dark green firs and pines provided plenty of cover, and their boots left deep footprints in the fresh, soft snow.

At some point Waylon lost track of where exactly Eddie was. He was hiding behind a broad fir thick with velvet green needles, and the sound of Eddie's sing-song voice trailed away, leaving Waylon to track the soft crunch of his footsteps alone. He hardly dared to breathe in the ensuing quiet; it seemed like the whole forest was holding its breath. When it seemed all was still, Waylon dared to glance around his hiding spot. He didn't see Eddie anywhere. He frowned and turned back, only to come face to face with the Groom hiself, his hand upraised and ready to strike.

Waylon stumbled backward in a blinding flash of terror. In that moment he forgot this was a mere game, couldn't see that the weapon in Eddie's hand was not a knife but a clump of snow, and he panicked, fearing for his life. His weak ankle turned underneath him and he fell with a startled cry. Eddie reached for him, meaning to catch him before he fell but ended up pulled down with him instead, and then they were both tumbling and crashing down a snowy slope until they came to rest at the base of a deep dip in the ground. Waylon was on his back, Eddie above him, both of them covered in snow and breathing hard.

"Are you all right, darling?" Eddie said urgently. He raised himself off Waylon, kneeling astride his thighs and helping Waylon to sit up. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," Waylon said. He realised he was shaking, as was his voice.

"Did I frighten you? I'm so sorry-"

"I'm okay! I'm, I'm all right. I'm just c-cold."

Eddie took Waylon's hands in his and looked at them. He hissed, and said, "Why, darling, you're perishing cold. Just look at you!" Waylon looked down at his hands. His fingers were pink, and now that he thought about it, quite painful. Eddie blew warm air on them and rubbed them between his own larger hands. "Let's get you back inside."

Eddie rose, and then helped Waylon to his feet. When Waylon put his weight on his bad ankle it buckled beneath him. "Fuck, _again_?"

Eddie hissed and crouched down at Waylon's feet. Waylon balanced with one hand on Eddie's shoulder as Eddie gently felt Waylon's ankle and leg.

"I think I twisted it again," Waylon said. "Nothing too bad. No, don't carry me," he added as Eddie straightened and moved to take Waylon in his arms. "I can walk. Just let me lean on you."

Eddie frowned but consented. Together they made their way back to the house. The snow on the previously pristine yard was now churned up with their footprints, their tracks looping this way and that. His shock fading, Waylon smiled to see it, and leant a little heavier on Eddie's dependable strength.

Once inside again, Eddie stoked up the fire and helped Waylon off with his outdoor clothes, wrapping him up in blankets and settling him on one of the threadbare armchairs in the living room. He brought the other over for Waylon to rest his foot on.

"Keep it elevated, darling," he said absently, before bustling off to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Waylon watched him go with a bemused smile. For all Eddie's diatribes about the duties of a proper wife, he often seemed more than happy to take over kitchen duties from Waylon, and indeed seemed to take pleasure in pleasing him. He also, when he wasn't in a temper, liked to dote on him. Waylon didn't mind for the most part, but it could grate on his nerves.

He listened to Eddie whistling as he rustled up scrambled eggs made from an expired pack of dried eggs Waylon had found in the back of the pantry, and instant coffee. As he waited he rubbed his hands together and then held them up to the fire to get some more feeling back into them.

"We're going to freeze if this weather keeps up," he called through the open door. Even though he was sitting right next to the fire, he felt chilled to the bone. "The clothes I brought with me aren't going to stand up to the winter weather."

Eddie reappeared in the living room doorway carrying a tray laden with two small plates of eggs and two mugs of steaming coffee. He set it down on the hearth and handed Waylon a plate and fork. "If you need warmer clothes, darling, you only had to ask. I really should have thought of that…" He clicked his tongue and shook his head as though frustrated with himself. "You'll need maternity things soon anyway."

Waylon ignored that last, and said, "Maybe there are some things in the closets upstairs we could use?"

Eddie grimaced. "You don't want those old things," he said quickly. "No, no…" He cast a critical eye at Waylon's current clothing. "Although, I really can't allow you to go around in these rags anymore." Waylon was currently dressed only in boxers and an old hoodie, with blankets over his knees and wrapped around his shoulders that were decidedly not doing anything to warm him up. "I have an idea." His face brightened, and all at once he swept from the room, forgetting his food. Waylon watched him go, wondering momentarily if he was supposed to follow. A throb of pain from his ankle put a stop to that idea, and he stayed where he was and ate while he waited for Eddie to come back. Eddie returned carrying a wicker basket filled with skeins of yarn in various colours, as well as several sets of knitting needles.

"There's another basket upstairs," Eddie explained. "But this should be enough to get us started. You'll need to rest that leg a while…"

Waylon had to chuckle. The eager, almost shy look on Eddie's face was so incongruous, if he hadn't known the body count he had behind him he would have found it endearing.

"I might as well try," he said. Eddie set the basket down beside Waylon and settled himself upon the floor. "Don't forget to eat," Waylon reminded him. Eddie finished his breakfast in just a few huge bites and then his attention was back on the yarn. Waylon sipped his coffee and resigned himself to spending the rest of the day as Eddie's pupil.

"Here, I'll show you how," Eddie said. He selected a pair of thick needles and Waylon chose a soft, thick gauge yarn in a warm golden yellow. Waylon watched as Eddie cast on for him, going slowly so Waylon could follow the loops he made. Then he unravelled the whole thing and handed it to Waylon to try. Waylon instantly forgot how to do it, whereupon Eddie showed him again, even slower this time, and after a few loops Waylon took over. "There, that should be enough for now. Why don't we make your first project a scarf?"

"Is that the simplest thing possible?"

"It is, but don't worry. Master the basics first before trying anything more ambitious. Here, like this…" Eddie showed Waylon how to do a simple stitch, repeated it a few times, and then handed the needles back to Waylon to continue. "Don't forget to count your stitches, you don't want it coming out uneven."

Waylon nodded gravely and focused on his task. His movements were slow and hesitant at first, but after a couple of rows, and several corrections from Eddie, he was able to begin to find a rhythm.

"Excellent, darling. There you go, you're doing so well."

Waylon flushed at the praise, even though to be so affected was ridiculous. Eddie picked out a finer yarn in a light shade of blue and began work on something of his own. Waylon struggled on beside him, envious of the rapid and effortless clicking of Eddie's needles and his fast progress. Waylon's stitches were uneven, and several times he had to unravel entire rows because he had managed to get the yarn snarled up in knots. He started to get the hang of it after a while, though, and from then on it was easy enough to while away the time. Meanwhile, the snow continued to fall for the rest of the day, blanketing the house and the surrounding forest in silence and white.

* * *

November crept onward, each day seemingly colder than the last. Waylon and Eddie spent the chilly evenings huddled around the fire in quiet domesticity. Sometimes they knitted, Waylon muttering and swearing his way through another few rows of his scarf while Eddie hummed serenely as a sweater took shape from his skilful hands. Sometimes Waylon found a book in one of the house's few bookshelves and read aloud, Eddie resting his head in Waylon's lap as Waylon stroked his hair. One day Waylon found an old board game amidst the piles of junk in the basement and badgered Eddie until he agreed to play it. It wasn't anything Waylon had heard of before, and the box was thick with dust and the instruction booklet yellow with age. Waylon had fond memories of game nights with Lisa and the boys. This was different, but it managed to be a pleasant occasion all the same, as Waylon teased genuine laughter from the former patient with his inability to correctly follow the rules. Waylon still won the game, and Eddie declared him a cheat.

"I would never!" Waylon insisted, grinning mischievously. "As the victor I demand a forfeit."

"Oh do you? And what does my darling wish?"

Waylon made a big show of thinking about it, and then announced, "A kiss."

"Well now," Eddie said, eyes glittering with mirth. "That doesn't seem so arduous…" He leant across the board and gave Waylon a chaste, sweet kiss. Waylon grabbed the front of his shirt with one hand and used the other to sweep the board aside, the pieces scattering across the floor, and turned the sweet kiss into a passionate, demanding one. He looped his arm around Eddie's neck and pulled him down, and the next thing either of them knew they were both on the floor, breathless and laughing, and clothes were being pulled off in spite of the cold.

One evening when the house was beset by particularly heavy snow, Eddie sent Waylon upstairs to fetch more yarn. "You know where it's kept, darling, don't you? There's another basket on the back shelf, by the window-"

"Yes, I remember," Waylon said. "More of the same colour?"

Eddie nodded, and Waylon set his mess of a scarf down and went off on his errand. They kept the living room door closed to keep the heat of the fire contained, and as soon as Waylon stepped out into the unlit hallway he felt the cold hit him like a wall. He regretted venturing out barefoot at once. He closed the door behind him so the room would stay warm, and made his way up the dark staircase. He knew the house well enough to not need lights on now, although he realised his mistake halfway up the stairs. The strange atmosphere he had marked when he first arrived and which he had almost managed to banish in the daylight was amplified a hundredfold in the cold and the dark. He reached the top of the stairs and stared down the upstairs landing. The doors to the rooms were all closed, the dark wood of the doors appearing like obelisks of even deeper black against the darkness. He had to traverse the length of the landing to reach the spiral staircase that led up to Eddie's mother's haven. He steeled himself. He had run more difficult, dangerous gauntlets than this.

The only monster left in this house was downstairs, and he was docile for now. The others were long gone. He had to remember that.

Still, his skin prickled with unease as he passed each of the closed bedrooms. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees when he passed the master bedroom.

Something caught his eye in the dark. Down on the floor, there was a patch of something lighter, a little triangle of brightness. He crouched down to investigate. A slip of paper was protruding partly out from beneath the master bedroom door. Frowning, Waylon opened the door. Inside was dark and musty. He reached for the light switch, flicked it on, but even bathed in mundane electric light the room still gave Waylon the chills. He saw now that the window had come open at some point, likely during any of the storms or high winds the house had been buffeted by in the past weeks, and the wind had blown a stack of papers off the night stand on the left side of the bed, almost as if someone had thrown them around in a fit of temper. Waylon gathered them up. They looked to be a variety of different things, old bills and correspondence. There was a letter from a Margaret Lenton, imploring her daughter to see sense and come home. This looked like it had been torn up and then taped back together. He set it back on the pile and leafed through the rest. He knew he was trespassing, but his natural curiosity wouldn't be stifled. The last page he came to was torn from a notebook of some sort, and upon closer examination Waylon realised it looked to have come from the same diary as the page he'd found in the basement. The ink was blurred and smudged in many places, as though from tears falling upon the page in the writing. The page began mid-sentence:

… _and he said he was sorry. I believe him. He's never done it before, he's always been so gentle._

 _Still, I can't help but wonder. I'd hate to admit Mother was right about anything, but this came as such a shock I couldn't help but think of all her warnings. She said she knew he was a bad egg as soon as she saw him. I laughed at her then, of course._

 _No… No, I mustn't allow myself to be so faithless. Every relationship has its stumbling blocks. We can get through this, together. I can help him through this. He's just been under so much pressure getting the business off the rocks, it's been tough financially for a while and it's only recently he's managed to turn it around. I'm so proud of him. I'm happy to have been able to help. Father can say what he wants, but that money was mine to do with what I wanted, and what I wanted was to support my family and our future. The new premises in the city will be just what we need._

 _I feel like a terrible wife for ever doubting him. I mustn't ever let him know about these moments of weakness, he would be so hurt. I can do better. He deserves better._

 _Ned's brother Joe is coming to visit for Thanksgiving. He's the only family he has left aside from Eddie and me…_

The rest was obscured with big blots of wet ink. Waylon turned the page over, but the back was blank save for a doodle of a wilting rose in one corner.

So, Catherine Gluskin, née Lenton, had had money, had she? The more Waylon learned about her the more it seemed like she had given up a life of security and possibly even privilege to be with a man who had been far, far from her equal, and apparently more than happy to bleed his wife's funds dry for the sake of his own failing business. What had been so mesmerising about Eddie's father that had wrapped this young woman so securely up in his snare? Had he really been that charming? Based on his photographs, Waylon seriously doubted that. Or had Cathy just been so young and naive that she had mistaken the first romantic attention she'd received from a man to be true love?

He couldn't say he warmed to the woman. She seemed weak and spineless, letting her man walk all over her. He realised he resented her for leaving Eddie alone with his abusers, just as Eddie had told it. He felt an anger towards this woman he had never met, perhaps even more anger than he felt for the men who had mistreated both her and her son. He couldn't even fathom allowing something so unthinkable to happen to his own children, and he knew Lisa felt the same.

He screwed the diary page up in disgust and tossed it down onto the night stand. Then he closed the window, making sure it was tight and secure, and drew the curtains across the window to help insulate the house just that little bit more. Then he left the bedroom and continued on his way up to the sewing room. In comparison to the floor below, the little tower room was almost cosy, despite the chill that saw ice forming on the insides of the windows and the persistent draft through the gaps in the timbers. There were no curtains up here, so Waylon had an unobstructed view of the night sky. With the stars above and the snow beneath, the sight was serene. The room felt like a refuge, and Waylon wished he could linger there. But he had already taken longer with his errand than he'd intended to, and Eddie would start to wonder. He grabbed the yarn he'd come for and went back downstairs. He was still curious about the rows of sketchbooks and papers lined up on the sewing room shelves, but his current disgust with the dead woman had dulled his interest in finding out more about her for now. To his mind, Catherine Gluskin had been a pathetic person whose weakness had ruined the life of an innocent child along with her own.

He rejoined Eddie in the living room and handed over the yarn.

Eddie looked up when he gave it to him, and said mildly, "Did you have trouble finding it, my love?"

"Yeah," Waylon mumbled. "I forgot where the basket was."

Eddie shook his head, but there was no anger in his expression. They settled back into companionable quiet, but Waylon couldn't get any of his stitches to come out correctly. His hands were shaking, and he succeeded more in stabbing himself with the knitting needles than in creating proper loops.

In the end it was Eddie who stopped him. One large hand closed over Waylon's and made Waylon lower his work to his lap. Enquiring blue eyes studied him, concern writ clear in their depths, but something else as well, always something else—the prospect of danger. Always in Eddie's concern was an implicit threat. Are you all right, and if not, _why not_?

"Is something wrong, darling? You're making a mess of this."

"Sorry…" Waylon set his knitting aside and climbed into Eddie's lap instead. Surprised but pleased, Eddie wrapped his arms around Waylon's waist. "I just…" _Just what? Just feel sorry for you, feel responsible for you, want to protect you?_ He couldn't voice these thoughts, none of them made any sense anyway, so he just kissed him. This time it stayed sweet and soft, and Eddie let Waylon take the lead as if he sensed he needed to. Waylon unbuttoned Eddie's shirt slowly and kissed his way down his body, his hands reverently caressing his skin as he went. Waylon knew there was no way his touches or his affection alone could remake this broken man, but he felt a swell of tenderness for him all the same. He wanted him to feel… loved. God knew no one else had ever loved him properly.

He sank to the floor between Eddie's legs and mouthed along the length of his cock.

"What's got into you, darling?" Eddie murmured, stroking his hand through Waylon's hair. He had taken to putting it up, and Eddie let it down now so he could bury his fingers luxuriantly in its softness. "You were white as a sheet when you came down. Were you frightened?"

"It's just a spooky old house," Waylon said. He nuzzled Eddie's thigh. "Can I…? I want to…"

Eddie took Waylon's cheeks between his hands and gently drew him up onto his knees. Leaning down, he kissed him, his thumbs stroking Waylon's cheeks soothingly. "Of course, my love, but won't you talk to me?"

"I'm all right," Waylon insisted. "I will be all right." He wrapped his arms around Eddie's waist and dipped his head to kiss the middle of his chest. He rested his brow against him, above his heart, for a few beats, and then he moved downwards again and unfastened Eddie's pants. He lifted out his dick and stroked it gently, looking up at Eddie through his lashes. He placed soft kisses along its length and to the tip, teasing him with his tongue as he maintained eye contact. The taste of him was so familiar now, Waylon craved it. The sensation of holding him in his mouth, the stretch and the ache, the heat against his tongue, all of it felt _right_.

He shed his own clothes as he worked him, somehow managing to slip out of them whilst still lavishing attention on his groom's hardening cock. Eddie leant his head on one hand and watched Waylon with undisguised adoration. He spread his legs, inviting Waylon to do as he wished with him. Just as Waylon thought of it, Eddie passed him the lubricant bottle. It was getting worryingly empty now, but Waylon was able to squeeze out a few drops onto his fingers. He reached back and slid two fingers inside himself. Eddie saw what he was doing—Waylon knew because the man's cock twitched in his mouth and his breath hitched. Waylon responded by taking him deeper, only to draw back moments later when he decided he didn't want to wait any longer. He climbed up into Eddie's lap once again and positioned himself over the other man's now towering erection. Eddie's hands slid up Waylon's thighs to his ass, which he squeezed and kneaded appreciatively. Waylon sank down on him, slowly spearing himself on Eddie's beautifully thick cock. He demanded more kisses, and Eddie gave them to him. Waylon didn't still until he had the entirety of Eddie's length inside him, and then he let out a long sigh of satisfaction. Eddie wrapped his arms tightly around him as he moved his hips just the way he knew Eddie liked. He lived to see the hunger in those blue eyes, the pride and the soul-deep desire. He stroked Eddie's brow, and then increased the pace with which he ground on him. Taking a handful of Eddie's dark hair, he pulled at his scalp, then tilted Eddie's head back and flashed him a smile that was equal parts tender and savage.

"Are you mine?" he said. His voice came out as a deep, rough purr.

Eddie responded to it, bucking his hips, cock pulsing deep inside Waylon's body. His hands tightened on Waylon's narrow waist and he said, " _Yes_."

"Yeah, you are…" Waylon claimed his mouth in a kiss.

The scarring to Eddie's face and lips had faded a little in the time spent away from the Engine, but his upper lip was still and would likely always be pulled into a slight perpetual sneer, the skin rough against Waylon's tongue. The red marks on his face had faded to pink, the blood in his eyes dissipated to leave them clear and blue. His right eye, like his lip, would likely always be misshapen as a result of the Morphogenic Engine's torments, but Waylon no longer found Eddie's scars frightful. He studied his face in between kisses, pinning him beneath his heated gaze and causing him to writhe and tremble beneath him. Whatever Eddie said, whatever foul names he called him, Eddie loved when Waylon showed how much he wanted him. He started to whisper something but Waylon cut him off with another kiss and tightened his grip on his hair to keep him there. It had grown a bit longer since the asylum, and Waylon had persuaded him to avoid cutting it, saying he liked the way it looked. It had also grown in a little in the back and sides, and Waylon found the short, soft fuzz pleasant to run his fingers over.

He brought his other hand to caress and play with Eddie's chest. Eddie groaned. Smiling into the ongoing kiss, Waylon rode him until he had him shaking with need. At the last moment, Eddie wrapped his arms tight around Waylon's waist and surged up out of the chair, swiftly taking two strides and slamming Waylon's back against the wall. He finished there, pumping desperately into Waylon's ass without even a trace of control. After he had spent himself he stayed buried deep in Waylon's body, still breathing hard, his face hidden against Waylon's neck. Waylon wrapped his limbs around him and murmured soothing nothings into his ear.

"Put me down," he instructed after a few minutes. Eddie's body was still quivering in the wake of his release, but he effortlessly carried Waylon back to the chair and sat down, Waylon once again astride his lap. Waylon bracketed his face with his hands and gave him one more lingering kiss. He had come just before Eddie, swept up in the ferocity of the older man's passion, the passion which Waylon had so artfully provoked. Now he draped himself over Eddie's large frame and held onto him as though to keep him anchored beneath his grip. He felt satisfaction, and pride, and a deep and nonsensical affection, too. He wasn't inclined to move.

Later, when the warmth of passion had cooled off to be replaced by the chill of the night, Waylon would lie awake and reflect back on his knee-jerk reaction to Catherine Gluskin's hand-wringing and realise that in reality it had not been Catherine to blame for the tragedy that had claimed her life and her son's sanity but her husband, and that the heat of his disapproval stemmed in part from his own situation. Wasn't he snared just as securely as she had been? Shackled to a dangerous, unpredictable man in the habit of lashing out with fists and worse, and yet always somehow sticking around for more abuse. He was even ensconced in the same cursed house, playing at husband and wife just as surely as Catherine and Edward Senior had.

He looked at his left pinkie finger. Catherine's ring glittered in the dim firelight. He had lost his wedding band at Mount Massive, but he hadn't taken this ring off since Eddie gave it to him. In spite of its sad history, looking at it evoked a warm ache deep in his chest.

Could it really be that he had developed feelings for the beast after all? He hoped to God he hadn't, because if he had, he was in much deeper shit than even he had thought.

* * *

Things continued on in this vein for a couple more weeks. Waylon and Eddie occupied their own little world, their isolation further cemented by the relentless snows that showed no sign of melting away any time soon. Eddie shovelled paths from the house to the outbuildings, but the road that led down the mountain and toward town was impassable. They made do with the food and fuel they had. Waylon rationed the food, Eddie kept an eye on the generator, and at night they huddled up and shared body heat so they wouldn't freeze. Waylon's ankle hadn't recovered from its last sprain. He'd strapped it up again for a while, but the weakness and pain in it were persistent even though he couldn't discern any injury worse than some swelling. He favoured that leg and took painkillers when he really couldn't tolerate it, but otherwise ignored it.

Eddie caught Waylon outside making a snowman one afternoon when the low winter sun bounced off the snow so brightly it was blinding. Waylon hobbled around gathering more and more snow, piling it atop the heap he already had and moulding it into the rough shape of a human. "It's you," he announced.

Eddie considered it for a few minutes, and then began to gather up snow and start building his own sculpture next to Waylon's. Waylon returned to his own with a shake of his head. He had swiped a couple of blue buttons from inside to use as the eyes, and used a handful of slim, flexible twigs for some rather unsatisfactory hair. He took the ribbon out of his hair, which was navy blue satin today, and made a bow around snow Eddie's neck to represent a bow tie.

When he was done agonising over the finishing touches, he turned to see Eddie still working with his. He took an abrupt breath, and then let it out slowly. Eddie had made a snow woman, with an obviously feminine shape and a head of yellow yarn hair and dark pebbles for eyes.

"It's uncanny," he remarked. Eddie missed his sarcasm, and smiled proudly. "You really got my likeness."

The only thing that hampered this seemingly idyllic peace was the dreams. Months after leaving the asylum, Waylon was still disturbed by regular nightmares. When they woke him, his first instincts were to find an isolated place to hide, usually the bathroom. Sometimes he crept upstairs to the tower room filled with Catherine Gluskin's sewing supplies. When they were particularly bad, he wouldn't even realise he was awake before he found himself crammed into some closet or pressed under a table, his body curled up as small as he could make it. He would wait until the panic passed and then make his way back to the bed he shared with Eddie by the downstairs hearth, and slip beneath the blankets next to one of the very monsters who still stalked his dreams. More and more he dreamed of Eddie's victims swinging in the Vocational Block gymnasium, strung up like the laundry Waylon hung out to dry on the line behind the house. More often than not they were headless or faceless, as they had been in reality, but sometimes they hung before him with the face of a young woman with dark eyes and long black hair, dressed in a trailing gown of white.

These nightmares happened often enough to become routine, and Waylon was learning to deal with them. What he hadn't expected was the change that came over Eddie. The man who Waylon had always known to sleep as soundly as a baby began to have nights of tossing and turning. Perhaps the longer he spent away from the Morphogenic Engine and the influence of the walrider, the further he ventured out of the lucid nightmares the Engine created. With that false reality crumbling day by day, the former patient was left to deal with his own real memories in place of the safe delusion. In his waking hours he showed little difference, save an extra brittleness in his smile and an even more forced quality to his manners, but at night whatever demons he wrestled into check in the day time rose up to claim him.

It came to a head one night when thick snow was falling outside and the wind whistled through all the chinks in the old house like a ghostly song. Waylon was awoken by Eddie's restless movements beside him. Once awake, Waylon swore at the cold and scrabbled around looking for clothes to pull on, which he did as quickly as he could. He put on the first garments that came to hand, which were his trusty old jeans, a shirt of Eddie's that was miles too big on him, and his own hoodie. He stirred up the fire, and then turned to his bedmate. Eddie was talking and twitching in his sleep, and his skin was awash with sweat in spite of the bitter chill in the room. Waylon watched him for a few minutes while he decided whether he should try to wake him up or not. On previous occasions, few as they were, he had simply moved away to avoid the man's flailing arms, sometimes retreating to curl up in one of the armchairs and sleep there instead, and otherwise left Eddie to deal with his nightmares alone. Tonight seemed particularly bad, though. There was a look of anguish on his face that ached Waylon's heart. That sympathy overruled Waylon's doubts and he reached out and touched Eddie's shoulder.

Eddie's eyes snapped open. Instantly, Waylon regretted his decision.

"Don't touch me!" Eddie roared. "Don't fucking touch me!" He lashed out, causing Waylon to throw himself backwards to avoid his flailing fists. Eddie's eyes were alight with the fevered, murderous brightness Waylon had seen in them whenever the walrider was terrorising his mind. The look he gave Waylon was utterly hate-filled, and the pain that had contorted his face had transformed into the wild, unchecked rage of a dangerous animal cornered. He was looking at Waylon, but he wasn't _seeing_ him, Waylon realised. He was still firmly in the grip of his dream, and where Waylon sat Eddie saw someone else, someone he wanted to tear limb from limb. Was it his father, he wondered, or one of the doctors? Waylon didn't have time to think on it. He scrambled to his feet and dashed across the room. He had just laid his hand on the gun when Eddie barrelled into his back and tackled him to the floor. Waylon fell painfully, smacking his jaw on the corner of the end table and having the wind knocked out of him by Eddie's weight on top of him. Waylon just managed to scrabble out from under Eddie before he could grab him and kill him. He didn't pause to threaten or even to shoot him before bolting from the room. In Eddie's current state Waylon wasn't even sure a bullet would drop him. His bare feet pounded the floorboards of the entry hall, and he heard Eddie crashing after him.

"I'll kill you, rapist fuck, I'll fucking kill you!" Eddie shouted as he pursued. Waylon threw the front door open and sprinted out into the night.

He was hit at once with a wall of cold and a face full of thick, wet snowflakes that obscured his vision. He wouldn't get far in this. He veered to the left and circled the house, his bare feet leaving deep tracks behind him. He dared a glance backwards without slowing. Eddie followed, nothing but a hulking, dim shape amidst the flurrying snow. Waylon could make out his hunched shoulders and clenched fists, even if his wild, rage-filled eyes were lost in the dark.

And it _was_ dark. The moonlight reflected off the white on the ground, but besides that it was pitch black. Waylon's eyes strained as he rounded the house, only just able to pick out where he needed to go. He would feel the pain of his frozen feet later, as well as the throb of his ankle, but for the present moment he felt only adrenaline driving him forward, his heart pounding in his ears. There was a rear door, which he had never bothered to lock. He ducked through it and back inside the house, hoping the few seconds' lead he had on Eddie would be enough to keep him alive.

Once back inside the relatively warm house he made for the stairs. He couldn't think where to go or what to do, he only ran. He thundered up the stairs, then the length of the landing and up the tight spiral staircase to Catherine's sewing room. He closed the door pulled a cabinet full to the brim with ribbons, rickrack, and other trimmings across it as a barricade. There was a dusty pile of sketch- and notebooks on top, which fell to the floor as Waylon clumsily manoeuvred the cabinet in place. As Waylon was backing away from the door, one of the dog-eared books caught his eye. It was the last thing he ought to be thinking about, but something about it grabbed his attention. He bent and picked it up, flicking it open. Several pages were torn out and missing, others were destroyed by inkblots or water damage, but Waylon saw enough to recognise the diary of the late Catherine Gluskin. It had been here all along, lying in plain sight in the one room Waylon had been so curious about but hadn't dared to explore. He was dripping a puddle of melting snow on the carpet as he thumbed through the worn, handwritten pages. There wasn't time to read through everything, but he skim-read passages here and there, enough to tell him the story he had already more or less known. Young and naive, Cathy Lenton had given up a promising life and moved out here to be with the man she loved, a man who had been charming and charismatic at first, but who, over time, had turned abusive and controlling. There were mentions of the man's brother, and how much he unsettled her. The one positive thread that ran through the narrative was Eddie, the only child Catherine had been blessed with.

Waylon heard Eddie's footsteps on the floor below now, but they were slow. He hadn't seen where Waylon had gone, but it was only a matter of time before he made it up here, after he had checked the other rooms. Waylon backed away from the door on quiet feet and flipped to the back of the diary. Here was the final entry. It was written in a more ragged hand than any of the others, as though Catherine had been hurrying to get all her thoughts down, perhaps while enduring a storm of emotion. Waylon scanned down the page and felt his stomach drop.

 _Something terrible has happened. Something terrible has_ been _happening, and I've been so blind to it, so blind! It hardly feels real, but that's why I'm writing it here. Maybe if I write it down I can make some sense of it, although there is no sense to it at all. I should have known something was wrong when Eddie's behaviour started to change. He's been so withdrawn, so quiet, always glued to the TV. He never said a word to me… Why didn't he trust me?_

 _I knew Ned had a temper, and I could bear that as long as he didn't hurt the baby. Honest to God, I swear I never thought he would hurt the baby._

 _Never, ever did I think… anything like this…_

 _My baby, my darling Eddie. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry._

 _I'm going to make this right._

 _Ned's out in the barn now working on that damned truck of his. I'm going to confront him. I want to hear it from his own lips._

 _This ends today._

There was no more. The rest of the book was just blank pages. Waylon looked out the window at the driving snow, and was shocked to see a light in the direction of the barn. He pressed his face to the glass, only to draw back suddenly when he saw a figure cross the light.

His first thought was that it was Eddie, for some reason searching for him out there instead of in the house. But that theory was disproved the next moment, when he heard the variant slam a door downstairs, and then his voice, snarling and broken, spitting threats. Waylon grasped the sash of the window and heaved it upwards. It budged only an inch.

"Oh come on," he whispered frantically. He strained as hard as he could and succeeded in raising the sash a couple more inches. He heard Eddie on the stairs now, heavy footfalls growing rapidly nearer. " _Shit_."

Eddie started slamming against the door, making the hinges creak and the hasty barricade Waylon had pulled into place wobble. It would be a matter of seconds before Eddie got past it. Waylon raised the gun toward the door, hesitated, and then swung around and shot out one of the windowpanes instead. Cold wind blasted into the little room, and Waylon's ears rung at the deafening noise of the shot. He didn't know why he kept the diary with him, but in the heat of the moment he didn't think about it before gripping it between his teeth. He squeezed through the small window frame, left blood behind on the remaining edges of the glass, and fell to the roof outside. The roof was covered in snow and slippery, and Waylon had to fight to keep his footing. The wind whipped his hair around his head, stinging his cheeks and making it even harder to see. He looked back and saw Eddie at the window, smashing at the remaining glass and the wooden frame with his fists before giving up and moving away. He was too big to fit through the gap, but Waylon thought it wouldn't stop his pursuit. He turned away and struggled onward, hardly knowing where he was going. His eyes were drawn to the one point of light in the blinding snowstorm—the barn. Could he get the Jeep working, he wondered? Technically it was an off-road vehicle, maybe if he pushed it hard enough, and maybe if he was granted a miracle, he could force it through the piled snow and down the mountain road to town, where he could beg help from someone…

He had no sooner thought of this than his foot suddenly lurched downwards, punching a hole through a weak section of roof, and he fell with a great crash into the attic, leaving behind a gaping hole through which the snow entered as proof of his own shoddy repair. He groaned and picked himself up. He'd managed to keep hold of the gun, but the diary had fallen a short distance away. He retrieved it, and took a moment to put it in the pocket of his hoodie and tuck the gun securely into his waistband, leaving both his hands free.

Eddie would have heard him fall, so he had to move fast. Ignoring the myriad pains in his body he hopped across the beams until he reached the hatch that led down into the upstairs landing. He paused only to listen for a second before dropping down.

"There you are!" Eddie snarled, and Waylon ducked to avoid his grasping hand. He dashed down the hall, vaulted over the banister and took the stairs down two and three at a time. Eddie was hot on his heels, but Waylon had always been faster, even when injured. He barrelled out the front door once again and back into the night. The snow was knee deep in the yard, but Waylon fought his way across it, feeling like he was wading through deep water even though he had no feeling left in his feet. He heard Eddie shout something behind him, but the words were lost on the wind. Waylon blinked away tears, already having a hard enough time seeing where he was going without crying as well. He fixated on the warm light emanating from the barn door and struggled inexorably toward that. He was practically crawling when he gained the door, and near mindless with fear. The barn doors were swinging in the strong wind. Waylon grabbed one of them and held it open, stumbling into the relative shelter of the structure. He raised his head, only to cry out and throw himself backwards into the snow. For an instant he saw, hanging from a beam across the roof, a woman in a white dress with long black hair. His vision swam, and the single figure became several, a hundred, hanging from the neck or the feet, their mutilated bodies swinging in the gale.

Waylon covered his face. He felt like his mind was unravelling, he had been pushed and pushed and now finally came the breaking point. He shook his head hard and then dared to glance upward again. There was nothing there. His breath came in great gulps, and wild, hysterical laughter threatened to burst out of his throat. He couldn't break now. He couldn't. He tried to remember the reasons why he had to hold on—Lisa's face flitted through his thoughts and was lost again like a photograph swept away by the storm—but he couldn't grasp onto anything. Somehow he made it to his feet anyway.

The light was coming from an old fashioned oil lantern that someone had placed on top of the hood of the truck. Beside the truck was Miles Upshur's Jeep. Waylon grabbed the edge of the tarpaulin and pulled it off, then yanked the car door open and threw himself behind the wheel. He searched for the keys. Where had he left them? Had he brought them into the house, or did Eddie have them? He slammed his fist against the dashboard as impotent tears fell from his eyes. He looked through the windscreen and saw a figure approaching through the snowstorm, saw Eddie enter the edge of the light at the door. He paused there, and for a moment their eyes met. Then Waylon stumbled back out of the Jeep and, fumbling a little, pulled the gun from his jeans and pointed it at Eddie's heart.

"Darling, is that you?" Eddie's voice was muted by the wind. Waylon's hand shook, but he didn't dare lower the gun. Eddie hadn't recognised him in the house. There had been no trace of affection, not even the mockery of it, only righteous, single-minded fury. Waylon couldn't talk his way out of this if if Eddie didn't even see who he was. "Come back to me. Darling? Why are you…?" Stepping into the barn now, Eddie's eyes took in Waylon's bedraggled form, the gun in his hand, his other hand on the Jeep's open door. Waylon saw understanding dawn. "Oh, no… No, darling, don't-… Not you. Why would you do this to me?" Waylon firmed his grip on the gun, his finger slippery against the trigger. Would that it wasn't so cold, his hand was nearly numb.

"Stay back," he grunted. "Don't come any closer."

"You're leaving me," Eddie said. Pain and anger chased one another across his haggard face. His voice breaking, he snarled, "I'll kill you before I'll let you go!"

"I don't want to use this but I will," Waylon said, indicating the gun. He meant it. He didn't want to hurt Eddie, but he would if he had to. He wasn't willing to lay down his life. "Don't take another step."

"Why?"

"Wake up," Waylon pleaded. "Just, fucking… You were dreaming, and you thought I was someone else. You tried to kill me."

Some of Eddie's confidence left him, although he took a slow step closer to Waylon. "I wouldn't… I don't remember… Darling-"

" _Don't call me that_!"

"Waylon." Waylon's hysteria was cut short at Eddie's use of his name. They stared at one another. Outside, the storm continued on, the barn doors creaked and crashed, the wind wailed like a wraith. The shadows moved strangely, and Waylon was still half convinced he saw the shape of a figure dangling above him, although he didn't dare to look. He kept his eyes fixed on Eddie's as awareness slowly crept into Eddie's mien. His shoulders slumped, and he seemed to age a decade just as Waylon watched him. Then he did something Waylon didn't expect. He sank to his knees, looking for all the world like a man who had lost everything. Sorrow in his voice, he said, "Waylon, please."

A choked sob caught in Waylon's throat. He dropped the gun onto the packed dirt floor and rushed forward. His legs gave out and he fell to his knees too, collapsing into Eddie's arms. Eddie held him crushingly tight, but while there was desperation in the embrace there was no violence. Whatever nightmare had gripped Eddie and spurred him into a killing rage had released him, at least for now.

"I thought you were one of them," Eddie mumbled into Waylon's hair. "I don't know why. I didn't recognise you…"

Waylon wrapped his arms around Eddie's neck and pressed his face against his shoulder. He was shaking badly, the cold and the fear finally getting the better of him and leaving him a pathetic mess. "Don't do that again… I can't do it again…" he whispered, hardly aware of what he was saying.

"Of course you wouldn't leave me, not unless I drove you to it. I'm so sorry, darling." Eddie rested his cheek against the top of Waylon's head. "You're the only one who's ever loved me. I can't believe I doubted you…"

"That's not true," Waylon said, remembering the diary. He remembered, too, the figure he had seen enter the barn, glimpsed from a distance, and the lantern neither he nor Eddie had lit. He pulled away a little and sat back on his heels. At Eddie's questioning look, he pulled the tattered diary from his pocket. "Your mother loved you, Eddie."

"What? Why would you- My mother was a lying slut no different from any other woman I've known… except for you, dear."

Waylon shook his head and pushed the diary against Eddie's chest. Eddie released Waylon and took hold of the book instead.

"That's not true, she loved you. She didn't know what was happening to you. Read the last entry, Eddie. When she found out she tried to put a stop to it." Eddie frowned and did as Waylon asked. His eyes skimmed over the lines of handwritten text. "Eddie, who found your mother's body?"

"I did," Eddie answered. He pointed with the book toward the beam above them, the same beam from which Waylon had seen the ghostly image of Catherine's body hanging. "Right there."

Waylon swallowed. Eddie was still staring at the text, going over the scrawled lines over and over again. His hands were shaking.

"I don't think she meant to leave you," Waylon said softly. The wind was starting to die down, otherwise he would have been inaudible. He thought Catherine Gluskin had no more hung herself than any of the men in Mount Massive that Eddie had killed, killed and strung up.

Eddie was quiet for a long time. Waylon watched his face closely, but even though he had come to know and learn the man's expressions intimately well in the months they had spent together, he still couldn't quite fathom what was going on in Eddie's mind. He could guess, though. His abandonment by his mother, the one person who might have stood to protect and love him in the whole of his early life, formed the cornerstone to his identity and all the madness that had come afterwards. Waylon had smashed that cornerstone with one devastating blow, and Eddie was struggling to make sense of the world now his reality had changed. His eyes darted back and forth in minute movements, as though he were caught in a dream again, but when he finally looked up at Waylon again, his gaze was clearer than Waylon had ever seen it. He hardly recognised him, and indeed, Eddie blinked several times as though making sense of what he saw as well. Waylon couldn't help but draw back, the intense scrutiny of Eddie's stare was too much.

"Eddie…?"

"Darling?" Eddie frowned, confusion writ across his features. His gaze travelled down, and then back up to Waylon's tear-stained face. "No… Who?" Slowly, his hand came up to Waylon's throat, and Waylon was too exhausted and confused to move away before he was already tightening his grip. Eddie's troubled expression quickly morphed into urgent anger. He gave Waylon a shake, and demanded, "Who the fuck are you? Where is she? What have you done with her?" Waylon didn't know if Eddie was talking about Catherine or himself. His wondering was answered the next moment, when Eddie, distraught, cried, "Where is my wife?"

Waylon was a rag doll in Eddie's grip. The chase and the storm had robbed him of his last strength, and the gun was out of reach. He tilted his head back in surrender as his vision darkened. _Help me_ , he thought, wondering if ghosts were really watching over him or if he was finally going mad.

Suddenly the pressure on his throat released, and Eddie backhanded him across the cheek hard enough to send him flying to the ground. A kick to his midsection had him curling up.

"No… No, I see it all now. How could I have been so blind? Thought you could deceive me, did you? No…" Waylon was blurrily aware of Eddie pacing back and forth. He seemed at war with himself, gesticulating as he rambled almost more to himself than to Waylon. Waylon looked around for the gun. He spotted it, a few feet away from him. Although his entire body ached with an exhaustion deeper than he had ever experienced, he started to crawl toward the weapon.

He didn't make it.

Eddie kicked it out of his reach, then crouched down in front of him and forced his face up with a hand beneath his chin.

"I don't want to hurt you, darling," he said. "We can still be together. You deceived me, but… I forgive you. I love you." His image swam in Waylon's vision. "I understand you were just ashamed to show me the truth. Don't worry, darling. I'm going to make this right."

With that he rose, and for a moment Waylon thought he would leave him be, but then he felt himself being lifted, his aching body gathered up with painstaking, tender care. Eddie held him in his arms, turned away from the warm lantern light, and made his way with slow, heavy steps back out into the cold and the dark. Waylon knew he should fight to free himself, but the heavy yoke of inevitability weighed him down, hopelessness rendering his body unresponsive, dead weight. He was so very cold. He turned his head to look up at Eddie, whose face was just visible in the moonlight. The storm had abated at last, and the snow that fell now was a delicate sparkling powder. It was beautiful. He let his eyes flutter closed, and the gentle rocking as Eddie carried him soothed him as he succumbed to the black oblivion of unconsciousness.


	7. Bitch

_Waylon Park had been a skinny, sickly child, all gawky limbs and a mouth full of braces. He had been a prime target for bullies in the school yard, and had learnt over the years that the simplest way to navigate his school life was to ignore them, and simply get away from them as soon as he could. As an adult he would eventually come to the realisation that this tendency to passively endure bad treatment would lead to a trend throughout his life culminating in working for a sadistic and morally bankrupt boss like Jeremy Blaire and then shacking up with escaped mental patient and actual serial killer Eddie Gluskin. At the time, however, it had seemed sensible enough, and a few scraped knees and hurt feelings were preferable to exacerbating the situation._

 _There had been one incident, however, that had cast doubt on this outlook. He had been cornered by a trio of the school's worst bullies, boys who had bothered him incessantly practically since kindergarten although they usually restricted their torments to name-calling and the occasional shove. He had been on his way out of school at the end of the day, having stayed late to catch up on work he'd missed from being off sick the week before. They had insulted him, mocked him, and then escalated to pushing him around and stealing his backpack. When he tried to grab it back, the biggest of them gave him a harder shove than usual, and he fell awkwardly onto the hard ground, scraping his knees and his palms raw. The bullies stood over him, giddy with power and already preparing to see how much further they could push their high, and Waylon remembered the feeling of knowing he was about to get more seriously hurt than he ever had before._

 _Suddenly, a voice had cut through the air: "Leave him alone! Leave him alone right now!"_

 _A rock came sailing through the air to hit the lead bully on the shoulder. He looked around just in time to narrowly avoid a second rock pelting towards his brow. Waylon, still on the floor where he had fallen and with bloody hands and knees, followed the bullies' startled gazes. A girl was standing at the corner of the Science block with a look like thunder on her small face, complemented by the storm cloud of frizzy black hair that surrounded her head. She had more small rocks in her hand, and she lifted one in threat as she advanced._

" _Crazy bitch," the lead bully, whose name was Paterson, muttered. One of his fellows moved to attack the girl, but Paterson held him back. From around the corner there was the sound of approaching footsteps, possibly a teacher on their way to investigate the commotion._

" _Come on, it's not worth it," said the third bully, a fat, spotty-faced kid, the counterpart to his friend's lanky physique and Paterson's sturdy bulk._

" _We'll get you next time, Park."_

" _Yeah, when your_ girlfriend _isn't around to protect you."_

" _Come on."_

 _The girl let another rock fly when they didn't move on fast enough, and they dropped Waylon's backpack and hurried away, muttering insults and threats as they went._

" _That's right!" the girl yelled. "You'd better run!"_

 _When they were out of sight, she dropped her remaining arsenal of pebbles and crouched down in front of Waylon. Waylon wiped the tears from his eyes and looked up at his rescuer. "Thanks," he said, a little awkward at having needed to be rescued at all but grateful all the same._

 _The girl held out her hand to him and helped him back onto his feet. "No problem. I hate bullies. What's your name?"_

" _Waylon."_

" _Hi Waylon," the girl said, and gave him a grin. One of her front teeth was missing. "I'm Lisa."_

* * *

Waylon awoke from a nightmare, only to find it hadn't ended. He was in the master bedroom, a room he had barely set foot in since arriving at the old Gluskin house. The light coming in through the imperfectly drawn curtains was the pale white of an early winter morning. He was spread-eagle on the bed, his wrists and ankles bound to the iron frame with torn strips of fabric, tied with tight, thick knots. Naked and defenceless, he was back on Eddie's workbench again, back in the torture chamber.

At first he didn't notice Eddie's presence, he was lurking so silently in the shadowed corner of the room, but when he saw Waylon was awake he moved forward. Waylon tried to catch his eye, but Eddie wouldn't meet his gaze. His eyes travelled over Waylon's body instead, and Waylon wished more than anything to hide himself from that critical look. There were bags under Eddie's eyes, suggesting he hadn't slept, and a tension in his frame. His expression was a closed book.

"Ah, darling, you're awake," he said distractedly. Waylon cursed the light, sing-song tones of The Groom. Carefully, he tested his bonds, tugging one wrist, then one ankle. If Eddie noticed he didn't remark on it. Perhaps he was too confident in the strength of the restraints to worry about Waylon escaping. "I'm glad. We can begin."

"Don't do this," Waylon whispered. Eddie drew nearer, his shadow falling across Waylon's body, and Waylon saw something glint in his hand. It was the Murkoff agent's combat knife. Waylon broke into a sweat. "Eddie, look at me. Look at me. Don't do this."

Eddie clicked his tongue, shook his head. He paced around the bed with the prowling gait of a big cat contemplating its prey. "You thought you could trick me," he said. "Was any of it real, darling? Tell me, I promise I won't be angry. Have you been a dishonest, lying _whore_ all along?"

No, Waylon thought, Eddie had gone somewhere beyond angry.

"Eddie, it's me. You love me. You won't hurt me."

"I love my _wife_ ," Eddie said bitterly. "But I don't know who _you_ are."

"You do. It's me, it's your Waylon, I'm the same person. Dammit Eddie _look_ at me!"

Eddie's eyes snapped up at last and locked with Waylon's. Waylon understood then that it wasn't just anger roiling inside the other man, but heartbreak too.

"You all betray me," Eddie spat. He advanced, hand tightening on the grip of the knife. Waylon forced himself to keep breathing, keep his gaze steady. He wouldn't be another whimpering victim, another faceless "bride" hung up to decompose. He had earned better than that, he deserved better than that. If Eddie was going to kill him then he would at least make sure he realised just who he was hurting. He refused to accept anything less.

"I haven't betrayed you," Waylon said. "I'm the same person I've always been, you're just… seeing me clearly. That place did something to your head, it did to everyone's, and it made your mind play tricks."

"You're saying it was all… all some kind of _delusion_? That it was all in my head?" Eddie shook his head. He loomed over Waylon, but he didn't raise the knife, not yet. "Everyone's always saying I'm crazy, but I'm not crazy any more. They made me better. This was real. What we had was real!"

 _No it wasn't_ , Waylon wanted to scream. _It was all a sick, crazy nightmare. You don't love me, it's just a part of your disease_.

But then memories of the last few months played in his mind—not the terror and the pain but the other memories, the tender moments and points of unlikely connection. It hadn't _all_ been bad. Waylon had found compassion for this broken monster, affection even. Together they had found companionship and, perhaps, healing. He realised now that the crushing ache in his chest was the pain of all that crumbling away as if it had never been. They were back at the start, as though all that they'd been through and shared together was indeed a dream, or a nightmare. He wasn't shocked when he felt hot tears fall from his eyes and trickle down his temples into his hair.

"Don't cry, my darling. It's not too late for us," Eddie murmured. He lifted the knife, looked down at it as though he'd forgotten he had it. He moved around the bed until he stood between Waylon's spread legs, then set one knee upon the mattress between them.

"Don't do this!" Waylon cried. All the restraint that he'd held onto thus far disappeared and he thrashed wildly, but the knots held. Eddie waited patiently until he had tired himself out. Eventually Waylon slumped down and sobbed, "If you do this, I'll die."

"Don't be silly," Eddie said with a little chuckle—a reasonable, long-suffering man dealing with an hysterical woman. He settled on both knees on the bed. He stroked up Waylon's thigh to his hip, and then Waylon's blood went cold as Eddie gathered up his genitalia in one huge hand and slid the knife beneath his balls. The steel was cold, and Waylon strained to get away from it even though there was nowhere he could go. Trembling, and afraid that his shaking would cause Eddie to cut him by accident, he tried one last time, "Eddie, if you do this to me I'll die. I'll bleed out, or it'll get infected. I won't be able to stay with you. Do you understand? You'll be all alone."

"I'll keep you alive," Eddie said.

"You won't… you can't! I'll die and then we'll never be able to spend our lives together," Waylon babbled.

"You made a vow!" Eddie snapped, his voice cracking. "Or was that a lie too?"

All Waylon's resolve was disintegrating, flying away like torn paper in a snowstorm in the face of his blinding panic. His fear was like static in his head, white noise like the hiss of the walrider scrambling his mind. "Eddie please… look… Look!" He jerked his left arm, pulling on the ties and trying to draw Eddie's attention to the ring on his little finger. "Is this a lie?" Eddie did look, and his lips drew back into an animal snarl. His eyes were wild. If Waylon had already reached his breaking point, Eddie was approaching his now. "You said it was like… like a dream come true. You meant it, right? When you gave me this?" Eddie held himself still, but it was the tense stillness of a tightly coiled spring.

"I do love you, darling," Eddie said in a hoarse whisper. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. Waylon heard the regret in his voice. "That's why I have to do this…"

"Please don't," Waylon whispered, his one last try. Futile, he thought. Eddie simply couldn't fathom a reality where the object of his love and desire was a male. Those feelings hadn't diminished or disappeared, as Waylon had feared, but the truth might be more frightening—to correct the contradiction, the impossibility in his mind, he would "fix" Waylon's body into a more acceptable shape.

"Think… think of our children…"

Waylon closed his eyes tightly and accepted his defeat. He had tried, God knew he had tried.

He did think of his children then, held the image of their faces in his mind like something precious, and Lisa's too. Both boys had Lisa's night black hair, their skin a shade lighter than Lisa's warm olive. She had always maintained they had Waylon's eyes, though. To Waylon, now, the three of them symbolised all that was good and right in the world, and he focused on his love for them and tried to find in it the strength to face his fate with dignity.

But he had come to feel love for the monster with him too. He didn't want it to overshadow what he felt for his family, he didn't even want to think about it, because if he did he might find it in his heart to _forgive._

He braced himself in preparation of pain. Eddie's grip on him tightened, he heard Eddie take in a breath as though bracing himself for the horrific act he was about to commit… and then the knife came down. Or more accurately, its cold edge left Waylon's flesh, and Eddie drove it point first into the mattress by Waylon's side with all the force to kill a man. Waylon opened his eyes, relief tempered by confusion. Eddie was bowed over him, his shoulders hunched and quivering and his hair falling over his face. Waylon held his breath. Eddie let go of both Waylon and the knife and placed his hands on Waylon's thighs. He kneaded restlessly, and then, to Waylon's shock, he lowered his face to the younger man's crotch. With his eyes closed and his brow furrowed, he lapped timidly at Waylon's soft cock as though he were afraid it would bite him. Waylon kept himself very still, very quiet, afraid to spook the other man out of whatever trance was motivating him and spur him unwittingly back into violence. After a few minutes of careful licks and tentative kisses, Eddie screwed up enough courage to take Waylon into his mouth. He was clumsy and amateurish, but he was feeling his way out, learning moment by moment, and in spite of the tense situation Waylon felt himself start to get hard. He had spent months being increasingly more intimate with this man, so that now the soft touches to the one area he had both longed for and dreaded Eddie touching had his body spiralling into well-conditioned lust. It was responding to stimuli, nothing more, he tried to reason.

He heard Eddie choke, and instinctively said, "Easy, go slow. It's all right."

Eddie looked up at him. There was something very vulnerable about his wide blue eyes, something almost fearful in his expression. He took Waylon's advice and slowed down, no longer trying to take all of Waylon's length into his mouth at once.

Waylon flexed his hips, his thighs starting to tremble and cramp from being held stiffly open. Deciding to try his luck a little further, he said, "Why don't you untie me? My legs, at least?"

Eddie lifted his head, letting Waylon's cock slide from his mouth, only to turn his face against Waylon's thigh as though trying to hide. A moment later he took up the knife. Waylon tensed, but Eddie only used its keen blade to slice through Waylon's bindings, first his ankles and then his wrists too. Waylon groaned in relief and stretched out his aching muscles. Eddie was still holding the knife, and tension radiated from him like a heat shimmer. Waylon didn't give himself time to think or doubt, and acted on his deep instincts alone. He held out his hand and said softly, "Give it to me."

Eddie placed the knife in his hand. He lowered his eyes and sank back down, lying on his belly and spreading Waylon's legs with his hands. Waylon curled his body so he could watch as Eddie sucked him into his mouth again, licking at him with a flat, soft tongue. After a bit, Waylon pushed himself into a sitting position, keeping his thighs spread wide, and though he kept the knife in one hand, he brought the other to the back of Eddie's head. He stroked his hair, as he had done many times in intimate moments, and though Eddie flinched at the first touch, after a moment it seemed to soothe him. A little more mindful of his own limits now, Eddie wrapped one hand around Waylon's cock and moved up and down, mouth and hand together, slow and so, so soft.

"That's good," Waylon murmured. He was still in a spin from the terror of only moments ago, but this was an easy enough script to fall into, even if it did venture into new territory. He was still half afraid Eddie would bite down and deal with the problem that way, but he didn't. He seemed utterly focused on his task, as though it was all he wanted to do, as though he'd been aching to do it for months. Maybe on some level he had. When Eddie looked up at him this time, there were tears in his eyes. "It's all right…" When he felt the graze of Eddie's teeth on his skin he instinctively tightened his grip in the man's hair, as though he could control his movements. "Careful," he hissed. He saw Eddie's face turn even redder than it already was, and it made Waylon smile. He didn't stop to think about it before he brought the knife up and rested the tip just below the angle of Eddie's jaw. "Watch your teeth."

He _saw_ the shiver run through Eddie's body. He redoubled his efforts, and sure enough he took extra care to keep from scraping Waylon with his teeth again. Waylon propped himself on one hand and drew the knife point down the side of Eddie's neck, following the strong lines of corded muscle. Waylon cooed soft words of encouragement, together with instruction. Eddie seemed to find some confidence, but he was still untutored and clumsy. He followed Waylon's direction as though all he wanted in the world was to please him. The knife provided an added thrill, but there was no question of Waylon posing a real threat. Eddie could take the blade from him easily, and Waylon knew that. It made it all the sweeter.

"Look at me," Waylon murmured. Eddie did, and Waylon saw that his face was deeply flushed and wet with tears. "Oh, fuck…" Eddie held Waylon's gaze for a moment more before closing his eyes and, pinning Waylon's hips with his hands, sucked the whole of Waylon's length into his throat. He choked on it, but continued determinedly on, suckling on him, swallowing around him, even though he gagged and struggled. "Oh shit, I'm gonna-" Waylon threw his head back, arching and gasping for breath as he came suddenly and spilled into Eddie's throat. Eddie ground his hips against the bed, needing nothing more than that and the taste of Waylon's come on his tongue to find his own release. He didn't relinquish Waylon's cock until he had swallowed the last drops of his pleasure, and then he slowly lifted his head and rested his brow against Waylon's belly. Waylon panted, feeling hot and confused but satisfied. He felt dampness against his skin and realised Eddie was still crying.

"Come here," Waylon said once he had enough breath to speak. When Eddie didn't move, Waylon gently pressed the tip of the knife under Eddie's chin and used it to coax his head up. His hand shook when Eddie locked eyes with him, and the blade nicked his skin, drawing a glistening drop of blood. Wordlessly, Eddie crawled up Waylon's body and let Waylon kiss him. Waylon dipped his tongue into Eddie's mouth and tasted himself. He threw the knife aside and lay back, bringing Eddie down atop him and wrapping his arms around him. Eddie broke the kiss and pressed his face into the crook of Waylon's neck. Waylon soothed the monster with softly whispered words and reassuring touches, and when he was calmer he guided his face up with light touches of his fingertips. They looked at one another, neither quite sure what had just happened, but Waylon thought the danger was behind them, at least for now. A threshold had been passed.

They lay back down, Waylon on his back, Eddie draping his heavy frame across Waylon's with his head resting on Waylon's shoulder.

After a long period of silence, in which the pair lay in limbo, Eddie said, "There's no baby, is there?"

Waylon weighed up the pros and cons of lying versus telling the truth, and found he didn't have it in him to pretend any more. "No," he said. "There's no baby." Another long silence, and this one lay heavily on Waylon's conscience. He had lied to preserve his own life, but he still felt wretched at misleading the man, especially when it meant so much to him. He wasn't sure why, but he said, "I have two children already."

"With that… Lisa?" Waylon nodded. He stroked Eddie's broad back and watched dust motes drift between himself and the stained ceiling. After a minute, Eddie said, "Tell me about them."

So Waylon did. He told him about Noah and Dylan, about how Noah had just turned eight before Waylon took the job at Mount Massive, about how he took after Waylon in loving all things computers, while Dylan, at only five, loved nothing more than racing around in nature weaving elaborate games of make-believe. He told him how both boys had begged for a puppy for the previous Christmas, but he and Lisa had vetoed the idea since it had been a rocky period financially, and the boys had been heartbroken but still grateful for the gifts they did get. The words tumbled out of him. He didn't know why, but it was a welcome distraction. In addition to the boys' personalities and quirks, Waylon spoke about everything from play dates to PTA meetings, all the mundane minutiae of child-rearing. Eddie curled around him, and even though he wasn't looking at him Waylon felt like he hung rapt upon every word.

When at last Waylon ran out of momentum and his voice trailed off, Eddie said, "They sound wonderful."

Waylon wondered if Eddie was thinking back to the house in Leadville, how he had peered into every room and seen the evidence of a normal family life Eddie had been robbed of. He still mentally recoiled at the memory of Eddie in that space, but that morning seemed very long ago, very far away.

"They are," he said.

"I'd like to meet them some day."

Waylon didn't respond to that, but he continued to hold Eddie against his chest, while outside the winter sun rose higher into the sky and a gentle snow fell. The fury of last night's storm was nowhere to be seen, and even the tracks left by Waylon and Eddie's chase had been covered up by a fresh layer of purest white.

* * *

The day after the storm, Waylon found a pair of scissors in a kitchen drawer and cut his hair before the bathroom mirror. He did a messy job of it, but it felt good to see the long blond locks fall into the basin as he chopped away. When he was done he looked like a new man. He looked almost like his old self. With all the blond cut away, Waylon was left with a head of short, dark hair in a masculine, if rather uneven, style. When Eddie, passing by the doorway, saw the new look he halted in his tracks, openly staring.

"Oh darling, you didn't-"

Waylon ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up, and shrugged. "I needed a change," he said. He made it sound like a challenge.

Quiet, Eddie only nodded. He reached for the scissors, but Waylon picked them up before he could get them.

"Let me," Waylon said. He sat Eddie down on the edge of the tub and leant in to trim his hair for him, keeping it short and soft in the back and sides and leaving the lengths up top. "There," he said, brushing fresh-cut hair from Eddie's shoulders. "I think you look handsome."

Eddie hissed, muscles tightening under Waylon's hands. He had sat tensely throughout the whole procedure, body rigid and his hands curled into fists atop his thighs. One might have assumed he was being subjected to torture, rather than a simple haircut. "You're mocking me," he said.

"I'm not." Waylon stood in front of him and bent down for a kiss. Eddie turned his face away. Waylon paused, and then reached out and turned Eddie back toward him with his fingers against Eddie's cheek. He took the kiss he wanted, although Eddie's lips were hard and unresponsive.

"Don't," Eddie said curtly. He rose, brushing Waylon aside. "It's not-"

"Not what? Eddie, stop." He grabbed the man's arm before he could storm out of the bathroom. He couldn't hope to hold him back by force, but Eddie froze the moment his hand touched him. "Not right? Not what you want?" Eddie glowered at him but didn't reply. "Is it because I'm a man?"

"Don't say that," Eddie hissed, but Waylon scoffed and shook his head.

"Don't do that. Don't go back to that," Waylon said. "You can't hide in that make-believe anymore, I won't let you. _See_ me. You know who I am, who I really am, and you love me anyway." That was the part Eddie couldn't seem to wrap his mind around. To Waylon it was as clear as day, but Eddie was still working his way through the tangled, warped mess of his own feelings, and now his perception was clear it was harder than ever to maintain his denial. Waylon saw it in the way Eddie watched him wherever he went, followed him from room to room like a lost puppy. It was painfully obvious to anyone without half of Eddie's peculiar issues. He was in love, and it wasn't a delusion and it wasn't a dream. The dream had clouded his true feelings rather than been the source of them. But it might be a while before Eddie came to terms with that, if he ever did. "For fuck's sake, Eddie," Waylon said, losing his patience, "You had my dick in your mouth-"

"Shut up!" Eddie thundered. "I'm not one of those."

Waylon bit his tongue, watched Eddie with equal parts frustration and pity. He would never be strapped down on Eddie's operating table again, he would never let him, or anyone else, put him in that position again. But nor would he ever again pretend to be the man's blushing bride. That period was behind him, and he decided he would rather die than backslide. For the first time in months he felt like not just a real person, but like himself. A changed version of himself, yes, but a whole person in place of a shade of Eddie's invention. For that reason, he refused to back down now.

"You can lie to yourself if you want," Waylon said, "but don't waste time lying to me. I can see right through you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're still fucking crazy, but at least you're like a real person now, and so am I. That's a thousand times better than pretending. I don't want to fucking lie any more."

He pushed past Eddie and moved toward the door. Eddie grabbed Waylon's hand before he could leave. His grip was tight enough to crush Waylon's fingers together, and the metal of the ring on his pinkie dug into his flesh. Eddie jerked Waylon's hand up, and demanded, "Why do you still wear this? You make a mockery of it."

"You gave it to me," Waylon said with an arrogant tip of his jaw. "It's mine, and I'll wear it if I please."

Eddie held Waylon's hand in his two and stared down at the twinkling jewels on his mother's ring. "You're the one who's pretending," he said. "Why do you persist? It's unnatural. Vulgar. We _can't_ … If you really loved me you would let me change you-"

"You have changed me," Waylon said, with only a hint of bitterness. "But it's not unnatural. Trust me, our genders is the _least_ fucked up thing about our relationship." He reached up with his free hand, stroked Eddie's sleek hair and then his cheek. "But I won't hear you talk about that any more, do you understand?" Eddie's eyes snapped up and locked with Waylon's. He was surprised by Waylon's sudden shift in tone from tender to stern. Waylon pulled his left hand from Eddie's now slack grip. "If you so much as think about taking a knife to me ever again, even if you think it's 'necessary', I _will_ kill you. Do you hear me? I've had enough."

"Darling…" Eddie looked stricken. What Waylon found intriguing was that Eddie didn't respond with anger, as was his usual resort in the face of defiance. In the wake of the previous night's revelations, neither one of them quite knew how to act around the other or where each of them stood. Waylon was simply taking control of the situation. It was time. Eddie looked like he was going to say more, perhaps tell Waylon he didn't mean it, or some such other condescending tripe. Waylon held his gaze without faltering, and Eddie found himself staring down not a weak woman, as he would see it, but a fully grown man with a will of steel, tempered and proven by months of suffering and still unbroken. Somewhat bent, perhaps, but not broken. Eddie had no choice now but to meet him as an equal, and Waylon saw him wrestling with that fact. Waylon had him on the back foot for once, and he'd be a fool not to press his advantage.

"Don't 'darling' me," Waylon said softly. "You know my name. Use it."

Eddie hissed, resistant. "Waylon," he said.

"Good," said Waylon. He even gave Eddie a little smile. "Now kiss me."

At first Eddie didn't move, and Waylon thought he would refuse, but then he ducked his head and closed his eyes, and Waylon claimed what was his. It was a quick kiss, chaste by their standards. Eddie kept his mouth shut, and Waylon ran the tip of his tongue along the seam of his lips.

"Thank you," he said when he stepped back. He left Eddie standing sullenly in the bathroom to confront his own reflection, and went downstairs.

The next few days were comparatively quiet as the pair of them adjusted to their new paradigm. Stripped of the brittle facade of "the Groom", Eddie was reserved but frequently prickly, and he and Waylon butted heads, but every time Eddie seemed about to lose his temper, he caught a glimpse of the steel in Waylon's eyes and wisely backed down. If they'd still been in Mount Massive, still within the influence of the walrider, he didn't think Eddie would have been so smart, but after so long away he seemed to finally be thinking clearly, perhaps for the first time in decades. Self-preservation would keep him under control for a while, and while Waylon wasn't fool enough to think it was permanent or indeed that Eddie wouldn't relapse into madness, he gave himself permission to enjoy their new dynamic while it lasted.

That week, for the first time since falling into Eddie's territory, Waylon slept alone. Eddie refused to join him in their nest by the fire, and Waylon didn't know where he disappeared off to every night. He woke in the early hours one morning, when the house was at its darkest, from another bad dream and turned instinctively to the warm comfort of Eddie's body, only to find an empty space where he was supposed to be. He shivered and sat up. Taking a candle instead of his flashlight and lighting it from the fire, he went in search of the other man. He padded barefoot along floorboards that only days ago he had sprinted across in a flight for his life, up the stairs and then up the spiral staircase at the end of the hall. He found Eddie in the sewing room, his massive body curled into the only chair, poring over his mother's diary. The only light in the room came from a small lamp on the work bench, and the cold night air was streaming in through the broken window. Waylon eyed the splintered frame with a shudder, then knocked on the open door and stepped inside the room. Eddie barely acknowledged him. Waylon set the candle on the bench and sat cross-legged at Eddie's feet.

"I found some of the missing pages," he said. "I can collect them up for you." Eddie grunted. "There are photos downstairs, too, if you want to look at them."

"No need," Eddie said distractedly. He slowly closed the diary, set it aside, and then rested his gaze on Waylon as though only just realising he was there. "What are you doing up here? It's late."

"I missed you," Waylon answered honestly. "You're going to catch your death up here, it's freezing." He hugged himself and rubbed his arms for emphasis. Eddie looked over at the broken window as though he hadn't noticed it before. He was dressed only in pants and a half-buttoned shirt, not nearly enough for this temperature. In contrast, Waylon was bundled into as many layers as he'd been able to find and he was still cold. "Come back to bed?"

Eddie looked like he wanted to, but he hesitated. He imperceptibly leaned back, as though to put space between himself and Waylon, despite the sick longing in his eyes. "Go without me, darling," he said.

Waylon frowned. He should be overjoyed Eddie no longer wanted to share a bed with him, let alone force his affections on him, but he just felt hurt. Instead of leaving, he rose and sat in Eddie's lap. Eddie leant even further back, his body going rigid. "I don't want to," said Waylon.

"You chose this," Eddie said through gritted teeth. He turned his head away and stared at the wall rather than look at Waylon. Waylon wasn't fooled.

"I didn't," Waylon scoffed. "But I'm choosing this, now. What, you're not interested in me if I actually want it?"

Eddie's brows lowered, but one hand came to Waylon's hip. He gripped Waylon hard, fingers flexing restlessly. "You know why," he said. " _Waylon_."

"You said you were mine," Waylon spat. "Look at me." Eddie obeyed without a thought. "Were you lying?"

"No! But that was before… everything's different-"

"Nothing's changed, except you're somewhere closer to your right mind. I must not be in mine, though, because I want you to come downstairs to bed with me and prove to me you meant every word… Besides, it's fucking cold."

Both Eddie's arms encircled Waylon's waist now, and Eddie pressed his brow against Waylon's. "It's just so hard…"

Waylon bounced a little in Eddie's lap. "Not yet," he joked.

"Not that," Eddie said with a wince. "I'm not like that."

"I am," Waylon said. He shrugged. "It's not that unusual, you know. It doesn't make you broken. It's not something that was done to you."

"We can be together… even like this…?"

"We can," Waylon assured him. "And it'll be even better. Trust me."

"…I trust you."

Waylon smiled. He got to his feet and took Eddie's hand, then led him all the way downstairs. When they got back to the bed, Waylon lay down and pulled Eddie down on top of him. They got each other out of their clothes and burrowed under the piles of blankets, shivering together, skin textured with goosebumps. Hidden beneath the blankets, Eddie seemed more at ease, and the icy barrier he had tried to erect between himself and Waylon started to thaw. His passion returned bit by bit, and Waylon welcomed every grasping touch and needy kiss. Eddie clung to him, and when he sank inside him it felt like coming home.

It had only been a week, but a week had been too long.

Upstairs, a gentle gust of wind blew in through the broken window and extinguished the candle. The little electric lamp continued to shed its flickering light until it, too, went dark, almost as if an unseen hand had switched it off.

The next morning Waylon woke late, only to find Eddie was still sleeping. He lay on his side, Waylon curled against his back with one arm looped tightly around his middle. He lay there for a while, warm and cosy, listening to the sounds of the birds outside.

 _Yes_ , he thought to himself in that peaceful quiet. _This is much better._

* * *

Christmas was an understated affair. Waylon sent Eddie out into the woods to gather pine boughs and they arranged them around the house together with candles scavenged from a box in the basement. Waylon had found more matches down there as well, so together they were able to turn the lonely old house into a fragrant seasonal haven.

Waylon gave Eddie the scarf he had been working on since November. It was lumpy and poorly made, but the yarn was warm and Eddie wrapped it around his neck at once and refused to take it off for the rest of the day. Eddie presented Waylon with a light blue sweater. It was a soft, over-sized style with a cable pattern worked into it, and looked to Waylon to be quite sophisticated work, even if it wasn't really his style. He dutifully put it on anyway, and with that combined with the fire and candles, he spent the rest of the day sweltering.

They spent the morning in the kitchen putting together the nicest meal they could out of their dwindling supplies. The radio was playing Christmas classics, and Eddie crooned along to Bing Crosby until Waylon had to laugh. They ate their meagre Christmas dinner at the kitchen table, sitting close enough for their knees to touch, and then afterwards Eddie washed the dishes and Waylon dried them. Once the kitchen was clean, they piled on some more layers and ventured outside. The forest was once again a winter wonderland, the air still and crisp, cold enough to sting Waylon's throat every time he breathed in. The sky was deep blue, with not a cloud in sight. He and Eddie walked deep into the woods, following what could have been game trails as they went deeper into the wilderness, and Waylon simply trusted that Eddie would be able to lead them back to the house again. They walked in silence, the only sounds the crunching of their feet on the snow and their own breathing. Waylon felt more at ease than he had in months.

They had just reached the mutual decision to circle around and head back to the house when Eddie put out his arm and stopped Waylon in his tracks. Waylon gave him a questioning look, and Eddie pointed ahead. Waylon looked, and his heart stuttered. There, in the thick snow in between lines of animal tracks, was a clear boot print. Waylon looked closer and saw the tracks extend into some undergrowth, where it got too confused to follow.

"It could be a lost hiker," Eddie said. "People wander up here sometimes…" He didn't sound convinced.

"No, look," Waylon said. "They're all muddled, but there's more than one person." He cast his eyes around a larger area. The forest was dense here, and Waylon was no tracker. He rubbed his eyes. "Should we… should we look for them? If there is someone lost out here they could freeze, especially when it gets dark."

Eddie put an arm around Waylon's shoulders. "No," he said thoughtfully. "Let's go back to the house."

Waylon didn't argue. He took Eddie's hand and let him lead him back up the hill to where the trees eventually thinned, and they emerged into the yard.

"Go inside," Eddie said. "I'll come in in a moment."

"What are you going to do?"

"I just want to check something."

"I'm coming with you."

"Tsk. Always so stubborn. All right, but watch where you step."

Eddie circled around the house, his eyes down. Sure enough, there were tracks here too.

"Fuck," Waylon said. "When did they…? Look, it looks like they've tried the windows. I never lock that door." He scrubbed his hands over his face and through his short hair. "Where are the keys?"

"I don't think they'll do us much good, darling, not if this is who I think it is."

Waylon set his jaw. "Murkoff." Eddie nodded. "Eddie, did you fix the Jeep's overheating problem?"

"No, I didn't get around to it… And the truck's no good in this weather. We'd need to shovel all the way down to the main road."

"Fantastic," Waylon said with a wince. "How fast do you think you could fix it?"

Eddie nodded grimly, understanding. "I'll go see about it now." He went off toward the barn. Left alone, Waylon faced the back door of the house. He realised then, that he had only assumed the visitors were not still there.

"Shit," he muttered to himself, and went inside.

All was quiet inside. The lingering aromas of cooking hung on the air, mingled with the fresh scent of pine. He stood in the rear porch and listened, and then when he was satisfied he was alone he went straight to the cabinet where he had stashed his weapons. He felt instantly better with the gun in his hand. He wished he'd had the presence of mind to take the Murkoff agent's holster along with his clothes, but he hadn't been thinking clearly enough at the time. He made do by tucking the gun into his waistband again and keeping the knife in his hand.

There were wet footprints on the floorboards. Someone had been in the house that afternoon, while he and Eddie had been out walking. The thought chilled Waylon's blood, but as he patrolled the house, checking into every room for further signs of intruders, that chill of fear crystallised into a cold fury. He became sure, then, that he would kill each and every bastard they dared to send after him. He had never been a violent man, but you could only push a person so far.

The house was empty, as far as Waylon could tell. He checked from attic to basement and didn't run into anybody. Eddie came back inside as it was getting dark, wiping grease off his hands. Waylon met him in the kitchen, and they ate some supper together in tense silence.

"You sleep," Waylon said after he had eaten as much as he had the stomach for. "I'm going to stay up and keep watch."

"You can't expect me to-"

"Don't argue," Waylon said, placing a hand on Eddie's chest. "If anything happens, I need you to be rested. Okay?"

Eddie sighed, covered Waylon's hand with his own and nodded.

Still, they didn't retire for some hours yet. Waylon tried to act normal, but the awareness of imminent danger turned his thoughts to mush and he couldn't focus on anything. After a while, Eddie thrust a new knitting project under his nose and told him to work on that rather than twitching and pacing.

"They had us do it at the asylum, before the riot," Eddie explained. "It gives you something to do with your hands and it fills your mind, it's supposed to make you calm." He shrugged. "Some people like finger painting, I like this…"

"All right," Waylon said quietly. He set the knife down and took up the needles instead. Sure enough, he found some measure of calm in the repetitive motions, his focus narrowing down to the next stitch, and then the next. He could still maintain his peripheral awareness, but he wasn't overwhelmed by it any more. It was another scarf, since he didn't know how to make anything else. The yarn this time was dark green, the same colour as the evergreens around the house.

At around midnight, Eddie extinguished the candles and slipped beneath the blankets. Waylon pulled one of the armchairs over to the front window and sat in it, holding the gun loosely in his hands and staring out between the curtains at the wintry night. The stars were very clear tonight, and they and the bright half moon illuminated the outside world in eerie silver.

He didn't know when he nodded off. One minute he was watching the snow-covered yard for signs of movement, the next he was jolting awake to the sound of a creaking board. He swore under his breath and firmed his hold on the gun. The fire had gone out completely, leaving the room near pitch dark. As quietly as possible, he crept to the makeshift bed and nudged Eddie's shoulder. Eddie woke more slowly than Waylon had, but his eyes found Waylon's face in the dark. Waylon held one finger to his lips, and Eddie nodded, alert at once. They crouched in the dark and listened to the approaching footfalls.

"Here," Waylon whispered. He grabbed the knife, the same knife that had almost unmanned him, and handed it grip-first to Eddie. Eddie blinked, then took it. He rose to his feet, silently, and motioned Waylon to get behind him. They approached the doorway, flattened themselves against the wall beside it. Flashlight beams moved in the hallway outside. Eddie glanced back at Waylon briefly, a whole conversation passing in that one look. They had spoken of this during the evening, while they had waited for full dark and Waylon had laboured at his knitting. Waylon was to evade the intruders and get out to the Jeep—Eddie had shovelled some of the driveway to provide him a chance of escape—while Eddie would engage the intruders and then do his best to catch up with Waylon. He had refused to listen to any alternatives, no matter how Waylon argued that he was just as ready to defend himself and his home as Eddie was.

"You're more important, darling," was the last Eddie had said on the subject. "Those children of yours are waiting for you."

Waylon hadn't mentioned that they had been waiting for him all this time. Eddie was in earnest, and to argue would only belittle his decision.

The first intruder entered the room. He had no sooner stepped through the doorway than Eddie grabbed his gun and forced him backwards. The combat knife rose and fell, and Eddie shoved the other man into the hallway. Waylon heard the sounds of a scuffle, of however many armed goons contending with one pissed off variant up close and persona. Waylon peered around the door frame to see Eddie dealing with two men decked out in body armour. A third lay on the floor with the knife protruding from his throat. Eddie disarmed one of the agents and used pure brute force to bludgeon him with his own weapon. The remaining enemy was recovering, though, and raised his weapon, about to mow Eddie down.

"Stop!" Waylon cried. He brought his own gun up and squeezed the trigger before giving himself time to think about it. The first bullet caught the man in the chest, knocking him back, and the second found his throat and dropped him to the floor. Eddie elbowed the last intruder in the face and then grabbed him by the throat, hoisting him up against the wall and squeezing the life out of him.

"More incoming," Waylon whispered urgently as he heard the back door get kicked open. Eddie let the man he'd just killed slide down the wall to the floor, and gave Waylon a look.

"Go," he said. He'd given Waylon the keys to the Jeep earlier. Waylon nodded grimly, and then pressed a quick kiss against Eddie's lips before turning away. Eddie headed toward the rear of the house. Waylon was about to move toward the front, but hesitated just long enough to pull the combat knife out of the dead soldier's throat. That moment's pause saved his life, because the next instant he heard booted footfalls on the front porch. Grimacing, he put the knife in his pocket, praying he didn't end up stabbing himself by accident, and then ducked to the side and quickly climbed the stairs, silent in his stockinged feet. On the second floor, he opened up the hatch into the attic and pulled himself up. He moved stealthily across the beams until he reached the hole he had made in the roof when he had been running from Eddie. Snow had piled in and threatened to collapse the ceiling below it under its damp weight. Waylon took advantage of the snowdrift to climb up and out onto the roof. Once up there, he had a view of the yard and the surrounding forest, and what he saw made his chest tighten. Flashlight beams bobbed through the darkness, indicating way more enemies than he had bet on. He figured he must have _really_ pissed Murkoff off.

The barn was dark, but Waylon could pick out its outline in the moonlight. The doors hung ajar, and he could see that a path had been roughly shovelled from the barn to the road. Waylon picked his way along the roof until he reached the side of the house. Now and again he heard spurts of gunfire, dull thuds, shouts. Eddie was on the hunt. The thought made Waylon smile, even as his heart ached at leaving the man to take the heat on his own. If Waylon could just get to the car, he could find Eddie and they could get away together. Months ago he wouldn't have thought twice about fleeing and leaving Eddie to go down fighting, abandoning him to get gunned down like all the rest of the patients he'd left behind when he escaped the asylum, but now the notion was only the vaguest, faintest hint of an idea at the edge of his mind. He lowered himself over the edge of the roof and carefully climbed down as quietly as he could. He almost made it all the way down, until his foot slipped on an icy window-ledge and he lost his grip. He managed not to cry out, but he still made a loud thud when he hit the snow covered ground. Winded, he lay there only a moment before forcing himself onto his feet once more. Keeping low, he moved as quickly as he could to the barn, slipped through the door to find it blessedly empty, and then jogged over to the Jeep. He jumped into the driver's seat and thrust the keys into the ignition. He turned them… and nothing happened.

"What the fuck? No…"

A figure appeared in the doorway, then a second. Armed, armoured Murkoff soldiers. Waylon threw himself out of the car, drawing the gun as he did so and firing off a couple of shots wildly as he scrambled around to the back of the Jeep. They didn't fire back, and Waylon heard them laughing.

"Sorry, but we couldn't have you escaping," one of them said. "One of the boys cut the ignition while you were cowering inside."

"Jesus. All this manpower just for this one guy?" said the other.

"You're forgetting his friend," said the other. They stepped into the barn and pulled the doors shut behind them. Waylon crouched behind the Jeep, holding the gun in his sweaty hands and trying to remember how many shots he had fired. How many did he have left? Had he even thought to check? Lisa would have known, she would have checked. He heard leisurely footsteps as the two mercs strolled around the barn. Waylon had enough experience of being hunted to know when he was being toyed with.

"How could I forget?" the first one said. "I read the briefing. _The Groom_. I guess they've been playing house out here." He spat a fat glob of phlegm on the ground. Waylon wrinkled his nose at the sound. "Fucked up, if you ask me."

"They're both fucked up," said the other guy dismissively. Then he called out, "What do you say, Mr. Park? Or should I say Mrs. Gluskin? Come with us quietly and we can take you to a nice facility where you can get treated for all your crazy. You won't have to be Gluskin's whore any more."

His companion snickered and said, "I don't know, maybe he likes playing the whore."

"Maybe we ought to find out."

Waylon had heard enough. He firmed his grip on his weapon and jumped out from behind the car. He saw one of them, standing casually with his own weapon propped on his shoulder, and fired. Too late, he realised the other had moved to the other side of the Jeep while they were talking. He came up behind Waylon now and smacked the butt of his gun against the side of Waylon's head. Waylon fell heavily, but didn't let go of his pistol until the merc stamped on his hand.

"You piece of shit!" the other merc was yelling. "You see this, Carter? He fucking got me." Waylon raised his eyes to see the man pressing his hand to a bloody wound on his shoulder. He smiled.

His smile froze when he felt the barrel of a gun press against his temple. All his hair seemed to stand on end, his skin prickling with some kind of electric charge. He held himself still.

"I'll come quietly," he said. "…Don't you want to see what I've learned?"

That made them pause. The man he'd shot—tall and broad-shouldered, his face beneath his visored helmet was dominated by a large, sharp nose and a thin-lipped mouth pulled into an angry sneer—came closer. He took Waylon's chin in his bloody hand and jerked his face up. He forced Waylon's mouth open and shoved two fingers down his throat. Waylon gagged momentarily at the blood, but got control of himself and met the merc's eyes. Suppressing his revulsion, he adopted a submissive expression and let the man thrust into his mouth. Placated by his supposed mastery, the merc laughed and said, "Shit, he's got you well trained, huh?" Then to his friend, "Let's have a little fun with him before we take him in. Let the others deal with the psycho."

The other snorted. The gun was moved away from his skin, but Waylon still saw it in his peripheral vision. The man whose fingers remained in Waylon's mouth placed his weapon on the roof of the Jeep and took off his helmet. He gave Waylon a predatory smile, displaying straight white teeth.

"Don't get too carried away, Sullivan," his companion warned.

 _Where the hell is Eddie when I need him?_ Waylon thought, before realising with a pang there was a good probability that Eddie was already dead. He couldn't rely on him for help this time. He was on his own.

"We've got time," said Sullivan. He took his fingers out of Waylon's mouth and undid his fly. A moment later Waylon was confronted with the man's already half-hard cock in his face, rubbing at his closed mouth. "Open up, bitch," Sullivan said. Waylon schooled his face to calm. He could do this. He had come too far and sunk too low to give up now; he would do anything to make it home again. He opened his mouth. He closed his eyes, every fibre of his being recoiling. One of Sullivan's hands fisted in his hair as he shoved his dick between Waylon's lips. Waylon sucked dutifully, giving the minimum of effort until the man withdrew and gave him a couple of hard slaps around the head. "Wake up," he grunted. "Or maybe we decide to just kill you here and now." Burning with hatred, Waylon set to work and was rewarded with a pleased groan. "That's better. I knew you'd be good at this. You love it, don't you?" Waylon made a muffled noise by way of reply and swallowed around the mercenary's cock. It tasted foul, felt all wrong. The smell of him would make him vomit if he had to do this for long. Thankfully, he didn't. Sullivan let Waylon work for a little while longer before firming his grip on his hair and thrusting roughly into his mouth. He grunted as he fucked Waylon's face, and then pulled back, stroking himself frantically until he painted Waylon's face with his stinking come.

"Satisfied?" Waylon heard the other one, Carter, say through the ringing in his ears. He watched Sullivan tuck himself back into his pants but neglect to zip himself up.

"You sure you don't want a go?" Sullivan said. "He's a natural cocksucker. Might not get another chance with him, God only knows where the company'll send him."

Carter made a disgusted sound. Waylon flicked his gaze up at him. He was more heavyset that his companion, with a chiselled face and a short dark beard. He was better looking than Sullivan, at least, and under other circumstances, Waylon might have been interested. As it was, the submissive, lustful look he gave him was of course entirely feigned. He made sure to touch the tip of his tongue to his lower lip, where a pearly drop of Sullivan's come had landed. "Jesus Christ," Carter exclaimed. "Look at this fucking fag."

 _Come on, you piece of shit,_ Waylon thought at him, keeping his face impassive. _Take the bait._

The man moved in closer, but shook his head.

"Let's just get out of here," he said. "It's cold as balls and I just wanna get this job over with."

"Suit yourself."

Carter reached down to grab Waylon's arm, no doubt to haul him to his feet. Waylon was eye to eye with him when he reached into his pocket and drew out the knife. He put all his strength behind it when he plunged it into the man's throat. Carter made a kind of gurgling sound of alarm and reared back. Waylon kept his grip on the knife, pulled it free of Carter's neck in a shower of blood and rounded on Sullivan, who was reaching for his gun. Waylon yelled and launched himself at him, slamming his shoulder into his midsection and bowling him to the ground. Waylon wasn't small or weak, by any means, but he was no professional. He'd have no chance in a fight against these guys, the element of surprise was his only advantage—that and the strength of his white-hot rage. Moving on pure momentum, Waylon brought the knife up and stabbed down, again and again. He was only vaguely aware of the man screaming. The splashing blood blurred in his vision, the patterns abstract, mirroring, vibrant red inkblots. His head vibrated with static, the pressure building until he thought it would explode.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come on, his anger faded. He threw himself away from the man on the ground. Sullivan was still alive, moaning and sobbing as he bled. His crotch was a red, pulpy mess. Waylon turned away on all fours and vomited. When he'd emptied his stomach he realised he still held the knife in his blood-slick hand. He threw it away, and it skidded under the truck. He held his pounding head, and then passed his hands over his face, realising too late that he was smearing blood all across it. He swore and crawled across the barn to the work bench where Eddie's tools were kept. He grabbed a chamois off the bottom shelf and scrubbed it over his face and hands. It was fairly filthy, but Waylon would rather be covered in engine grease than blood and come. As the rush of adrenaline that had given him the strength to defend himself left him, he started to shake uncontrollably. He curled up on himself, wanting for all the world to simply hide somewhere and never come out. He forced himself to breathe in the scent of the old chamois instead of the stink of blood that took him straight back to the asylum. He couldn't lose it now. If he fell apart more enemies would find him and kill him, or worse, take him away to be victim to more of Murkoff's sadistic experiments. Just as he had done so many times before, he got his fear and revulsion under control, forced his breathing to slow.

Only then did he finally turn back to face what he had done. The bodies of the two Murkoff agents lay in pools of their own blood. They had both stopped moving now.

That made four people, now, that Waylon had killed. Four lives stopped at his hand.

He tried to feel bad about it, but all he felt was numb.

Shaking his head to disperse the lingering static, he got up, staggered to the Jeep, and fell into it. They said they'd cut the ignition. He stared dumbly at the dashboard, realising now that a panel below the wheel had been torn away and a colourful bundle of wires hung out like entrails, each of them cut through exposing frayed copper ends. He had no idea what to do about that. Eddie might, if he could find him.

 _I guess I'm not getting out of here without you,_ he thought. _Talk about déjà vu._

That meant he would have to go back out there.

"Fuck!"

He gathered up the last shreds of his strength and willpower, and left the car. He ought to take one of the Murkoff guys' guns, but something within him recoiled. Did he want even more blood on his hands?

If it came down to killing or never seeing his family again, what would he do?

With a sigh, he picked up one of the damned guns and went to the door. He pushed it open, only to walk straight into another pair of mercs, no doubt coming to check on their colleagues. However, he had no sooner registered the danger than a third figure materialised out of the night behind them, and the moonlight glanced off a swinging blade in the dark. The wood axe hit the first man in the side of the neck, almost taking his head off, then swung again to take off the second merc's arm before he could shoot Waylon. Eddie moved like a demon, face contorted in the silvery light, and the merc barely had time to cry out before Eddie drove the axe blade through the top of his head, his enhanced variant strength splitting the man's helmet and skull both in two. Eddie yanked the axe free and the dead man slumped onto the snow, and then he turned to Waylon.

Eddie's deranged white grin had never been a more welcome sight.

"You're alive!" Unthinking, Waylon threw himself into Eddie's arms.

Eddie held the axe down at his side and wrapped his free arm around Waylon, rubbing his back soothingly. "You didn't think I'd leave you alone, did you? I did have a couple of close calls, but someone up there must be looking out for us."

Waylon looked over his shoulder into the blood drenched barn, and for an instant his gaze flicked upwards to the beam above. "Yeah," he said, and was unable to stopper the laughter that bubbled out of him. "Maybe. A regular guardian angel."

They separated and faced each other. Eddie was covered with as much blood as Waylon was, perhaps more. The sight of his face splattered with red took Waylon back to their first terrifying meeting, as did the hectic gleam in Eddie's eyes, but this time he was glad of it. He felt better about facing whatever else Murkoff threw at him with his very own monster on his side.

"Eddie, they sabotaged the Jeep. I can't get it to start. Can you fix it?"

"I'm sure I could, darling, but time is short."

As if to punctuate Eddie's point, a clamour of shouts arose from near the house, shortly followed by gunfire. Waylon ducked, swearing, and Eddie turned back to see the oncoming threat. He hefted the axe, as though preparing to take on all the rest of the armed mercenaries with that alone.

"Get down, you crazy bastard," Waylon hissed, grabbing Eddie's arm and tugging him into a crouch. "They'll be here in seconds. Shit!" There was no time to fiddle with the Jeep, let alone drive. He grabbed Eddie's hand and pulled him along behind him as he made his way around the barn. There was no choice now but to risk escaping on foot. "This way!"

The woods were dark. The moonlight didn't penetrate beneath the trees, and Waylon was running blind without a flashlight or his camera. Eddie had better night vision than him, and when Waylon faltered he took the lead, pulling Waylon onward by the hand. Their pursuers were close behind them. Their flight became a mad dash down the hill, through the piled snow and the dense maze of trees with branches that whipped their faces bloody. Waylon felt the wings of madness beat at his mind again, panic spurring his urgency and allowing him to ignore the persistent pain in his ankle and the exhaustion of his freezing body. Maybe Eddie felt it too, the shadow hovering above and beneath his consciousness. Eddie dragged him onward, and whenever he stumbled Waylon pulled him on instead, neither of them chancing to slow for even a second.

Then, all of a sudden, the forest spat them out onto an open stretch of road. Waylon stumbled to his knees at the shock of suddenly fetching up on flat ground, and as he rose he felt the bullet part his hair before he even heard the shot. Eddie's weight slammed into his back and they fell, but not before another rattle of gunfire echoed out around the isolated mountain road. For a moment Waylon was too winded and stunned to move. Eddie was heavy on top of him, and Waylon realised belatedly what had happened. Eddie coughed and spat blood onto the road beneath them, shiny against the black of the asphalt. "Go," he croaked, but Waylon knew it was already too late. He heard the mercenaries' jackbooted feet coming closer, tramping down the hill and onto the road, moving slower now their prey was down.

Waylon tried to crawl from under Eddie's weight. He didn't care that it would make him a more obvious target—he wasn't going to meet his death lying down. He still had the gun, he would see how many of them he could get before the end.

As he started to inch forward, his vision was filled with dazzling light. It took him a moment to realise he was seeing oncoming headlights. The vehicle skidded to a stop in the middle of the road just a few feet ahead. Waylon got himself free of Eddie's dead weight and staggered to his feet. A figure was silhouetted in the vehicle's headlights. Waylon squinted but he couldn't make them out, but he did catch the metallic glint of a gun as it was raised.

"Get down," the newcomer commanded. Waylon obeyed at once. His body knew what it took seconds yet for his mind to catch up to—he trusted that voice, implicitly, entirely.

He dropped to the ground and covered his head. Shots rang out, bullets flying over his head. The mercenaries were as dazzled by the bright headlights as Waylon had been, and the newcomer took advantage of their blindness to drop each of them with precise shots.

It was over before Waylon knew it.

"Get up."

He looked up to see a hand being offered. He took it, and rose to his feet. Close to, he could see his rescuer's face more clearly—dark eyes and strong brows, a broad mouth, high cheekbones, all surrounded by a coiling mane of black hair—it was a beloved face, and one he hadn't thought to ever see again.

"Lisa?" he said. She looked thinner than he'd last seen her, and wore a stern look on her face. She was dressed in a battered brown jacket and sturdy winter boots. She spared him only a brief glance before scanning the forest edge again. Waylon followed her eyes. "There's probably more, I don't know, I saw a lot of lights," he babbled. "I think they sent everyone they had after me."

Lisa nodded. "Get in the car."

Waylon got a proper look at her vehicle now. He didn't recognise it, but it looked awfully similar to the Humvee-like things Waylon had seen parked in front of Mount Massive when he left. He didn't know where on Earth she had found it, or how she had found _him_ for that matter, but he was too grateful to question it just yet. He took half a step toward the passenger door and then turned back. "Wait." He returned to Eddie, who still lay prone on the asphalt. He had one arm outstretched, and as Waylon knelt by him he reached for him. Waylon saw spots of darkness on Eddie's back, blood seeping through his clothes. He'd been shot two or three times at least, as far as Waylon could see in the moonlight. Waylon didn't know if he was dying or not, but he definitely would die if Waylon left him there. He took Eddie's hand in his own, and Eddie lifted his head. His eyes were unfocused, but they found Waylon's face after a moment. He gripped Waylon's hand so hard Waylon was afraid he'd break it.

"Darling…?"

Waylon swallowed, his throat felt so dry. "I… You're shot, Eddie. You saved me."

Eddie managed a vague smile. He was still wearing the hideous yellow scarf Waylon had made for him.

Waylon heard the crunch of Lisa's footsteps coming up behind him.

"Is he a friend of yours?" she asked.

Waylon was helpless to answer. He looked up at her. "He saved my life," he said.

Lisa nodded. She put her gun away and crouched down. "You take one arm, I'll take the other. He looks heavy."

"A-all right."

"Hurry, Way."

Waylon nodded. Eddie _was_ heavy, but somehow between the two of them they half lifted, half dragged him to the car. Eddie managed to get his feet under him, thank God, and crawled into the back seat on his own. Waylon got in with him, and Lisa returned to the driving seat, slamming the door shut just as the glare of flashlights became visible in the woods. She revved the engine and a moment later they were moving, travelling way too fast on the icy mountain road and leaving the empty Gluskin house behind.

Eddie got himself halfway upright in the back seat, leaning his brow against the window and closing his eyes. His breathing was shallow, and even in the dark Waylon could see his face was paper white, his skin shiny with sweat. Although it ached Waylon's heart to leave him, he clambered into the front seat and looked at Lisa's profile. He still couldn't believe she was there.

"How did you find me?" he said.

"It wasn't easy," Lisa said. "But I had some help. I'll tell you all about it on the way."

"On the way? On the way where? And where are the boys?"

"With Shelly," Lisa said.

"Shelly… Your ex-girlfriend Shelly? Ex-cop Shelly?"

Lisa glanced in the rear-view mirror and then nodded. "I needed to leave them somewhere safe. She's got a place out in the country. Are you hurt?"

Waylon slumped back into the seat, doing his best to process everything that had happened in such a short space of time. "Uh, what? No. No, I'm not hurt. Not really."

"Thank God." Lisa was quiet for a minute, and then she turned to him, taking one hand off the wheel to reach for Waylon's hand. Waylon saw tears in her eyes. He understood. Lisa had always been the tougher of the two of them, but just because she couldn't afford to have a tearful breakdown when they were still on the run, he didn't doubt the depth of her love and relief. "I missed you, Way. Thanks for not being dead."

Waylon laughed and squeezed her hand. He had missed her too, more than he had allowed himself to be aware of. "Thanks for saving me," he said. "You arrived just in time. I don't know why there were so many-"

"They think you have the walrider," said Lisa.

For a moment Waylon could only gape at her. "They… what? Why? How do you know about the walrider?"

"I said I had help." When Waylon continued to only stare at her, she clicked her tongue exasperatedly and said, "When I didn't hear from you for weeks I went looking for you. No one would give me any information, that Blaire asshole only had threats and smug remarks. So I went to the asylum myself."

"You didn't."

Her eyes were on the road ahead now. "What else was I supposed to do? The place was torched by the time I got there, everyone was dead. Everyone except one person."

Waylon remembered the dark figure he had seen on the asylum's front steps, surrounded by a black cloud. He'd assumed it had been another variant. "Who?" he said.

"You knew him, actually. He certainly knew you."

"Upshur," Waylon said, cold settling in his stomach.

"The same," said Lisa. She reached into her jacket's inner pocket and drew out a spiral bound notebook. Now that he noticed it, Waylon didn't recognise the jacket from his wife's wardrobe. It was big on her, and didn't suit her usual style. "He gave me this," she said. "Plus a whole bunch of files from that madhouse, proof in black and white of the crazy shit that went down. And… one more thing."

"What was that?"

Lisa's mouth thinned and she didn't answer. She pointed ahead with her chin and Waylon looked. There were lights ahead, vehicles parked across the road to form a blockade.

"Crap. What do we do?" Waylon said.

Lisa didn't slow down. Instead she pressed her foot down on the gas pedal, and her mouth curved into a grim smile. Then everything seemed to happen at once. In the back seat, Eddie roused with a groan of pain and started to scratch and bat at his head. Waylon felt it a moment later, the pressure in his skull and the unbearable hissing static. Panic and dread gripped him, paralysed him, surreal visions swarmed before his eyes. He blinked repeatedly, shook his head. He had to get away, he had to escape, run, hide… He was just about to grab the door handle and throw himself out into the snow in blind terror when they gained the barricade. He threw his hands up, certain they would crash. He could see the men waiting for them now. They were scrambling, having realised their car showed no sign of slowing. Waylon pressed himself as far back into his seat as he could, sweat running off him. In the rapidly narrowing space between their vehicle and those in the barricade, the darkness coalesced into a black cloud, and at its heart was a vaguely humanoid shape. Waylon looked desperately at Lisa, and froze. A black aura surrounded her, her hair seemed to lift and coil on its own, and her eyes burned with an unearthly light. Her face split into a grin and she slammed her foot all the way down on the gas. _One more thing_ , she had said. Miles Upshur had given her the files and notes, and one more thing. The walrider hit the barricade before they did, punched a hole straight through it, sending vehicles flying and the uniformed Murkoff thugs screaming and running for cover. Lisa laughed out loud as they blasted past and out onto the open road.

Minutes passed by in silence. Lisa didn't let up on the speed for a while, until it was clear they weren't being pursued. Waylon, shaking in the passenger seat, tried to wrestle his thoughts under control, although they squirmed and slipped over and under each other like a ball of angry worms. The fear and the mental noise receded gradually. Waylon held himself still, staring straight ahead at the road that was washed in shades of grey from the high-beams. He thought he could still see the black coils of the walrider in the shadows the headlights didn't reach, or creeping into the dark behind his eyelids each time he blinked. The smoky penumbra around Lisa lessened a bit, and when she looked at Waylon her eyes were her own again. Still Waylon looked at her with fear and confusion, and unconsciously held his body as far away from her as he could. Behind him, Eddie moaned, too dazed from blood loss, exhaustion, and pain to swing into one of his killing rages, thank god.

"How?" Waylon croaked.

"It's a long story," said Lisa. "I said I'd tell you on the way, but maybe it should wait. Your friend won't last long if we don't get him some help."

Waylon looked back at Eddie. He was leaning back now, and his glassy eyes met Waylon's. His pallor was frightening, and Waylon felt the urge to go to him.

"No hospitals," Eddie pleaded. His voice was alarmingly faint. "No doctors."

Lisa must have sensed Waylon's distress, because she said, "Go on. You might as well try and get some rest while you can."

Sleep wouldn't come easy, but Waylon climbed back into the back seat all the same. Eddie reached for him, and Waylon helped him move so he could lean against him, his head against Waylon's shoulder. Unthinking, Waylon pressed a kiss to the man's brow, and Eddie gripped the front of Waylon's sweater like a child holding onto his mother. Lisa watched them in the rear-view for a moment, saying nothing. It could wait, Waylon thought. It would have to. The guilt and the shame, the explanations and the forgiveness, if there could even be any—all of it would have to wait. He couldn't think about it now. He had held himself together for months because he'd had no other choice, and now it felt like all the fraying threads that held his sanity together were coming undone—but then again, that might only have been due to the darkness that still clung to the car, enveloping all within it in its pall. The walrider lingered just beyond the bounds of awareness, while its newest host sat up front limned in shadow. He just couldn't accept the idea of Lisa, the woman he loved, being so changed, tainted by the very thing that had wreaked such horror and destruction throughout the halls of Mount Massive. But wasn't he tainted as well? The proof of it was leant against his shoulder, barely conscious now. His Eddie, both hated and beloved. Waylon fought to wrap his mind around the idea that the life he had left behind and which he had struggled for so long to return to, no longer existed.

 _Why, Miles?_ he wondered, groping for understanding. _Is this revenge? Why couldn't you just let it die, let it end with you?_

He watched the vague, dark shapes of the trees go by as they drove, until he thought he saw the face of the walrider watching him back. Then he closed his eyes, but it was waiting for him in the darkness there as well, the inescapable evil that should have died when Mount Massive burned. Not knowing what else to do, he did the only thing he could and held Eddie closer, hoping and praying they would all three of them make it through this night, even while dreading the very same.


	8. Farewell

Waylon and Lisa sat side by side in the waiting room. Despite Eddie's pleas, they had been forced to seek medical help or else risk having him bleed to death right there on the back seat. Lisa said it was unlikely Murkoff would send their soldiers into a busy hospital filled with innocent people, and so figured they would be safe enough for the time being. Waylon wasn't sure he agreed, but he wasn't willing to gamble with Eddie's life. As soon as they carried Eddie into the entrance he had been whisked away, and Waylon had not been allowed to follow. Now he waited with his heart in his mouth. He knew he should be happy to be with Lisa, but all he could think about was the man on the other side of the big set of double doors, fighting for his life. He drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair, tapped his foot, and was about to get up and start pacing when Lisa's hand on his arm made him still.

"Relax," Lisa said.

"I'm trying," Waylon answered. He clasped his hands in front of his chest to keep them still.

"He'll be okay," Lisa said softly. Kind, supportive, reassuring Lisa. Waylon wanted to claw his heart out.

"You wouldn't have saved him if you knew who he was," he said with a bitter bite of laughter.

"You said he saved you," said Lisa.

"He did, a few times. I'd probably have died long ago without him… I don't know. He was… He was a patient."

Lisa's eyebrows shot up. "A patient at Mount Massive? Well, I guess I don't know what I expected. So he's…" She made a gesture, twirling one finger beside her head.

"Crazy?" said Waylon. "Oh yeah. Less so now than when we were inside, but with that _thing_ you're carrying around, I'm not sure how long he can stay lucid. Even I feel the effects of it."

"I'll keep it under control," Lisa said, but Waylon just shook his head.

"I can feel it even now," he said, voice low. "On the edge of my mind, it feels like someone scraping nails down a chalkboard." He shook his head again, sharper this time. "What's it like? Having it… inside?"

Lisa looked away. "Noisy. I try not to think about it too much. It… talks to me."

"What?"

"Well. Not in any language I can understand, but I feel like it's trying to communicate sometimes. I understand small snatches here and there, but don't ask me how."

Waylon shivered. In the mundane electric lights of the hospital waiting room, he had almost been able to forget the change she had gone through. She was no longer just Lisa alone, she was carrying a monster around with her—just like him. He looked at her sadly. Lisa was the most strong-willed person Waylon had ever met, but it would wear her down eventually, just like it did everyone, unless she passed the curse on to someone else. Waylon didn't think she would allow that to happen. No, Lisa would shoulder the burden so that nobody else would have to, and sooner or later it would destroy her. He reached out and put his hand on hers. She shrugged.

"I'm all right, Way, really. I'll handle it. You don't need to worry about it."

Just then the doors opened. Waylon sprang to his feet as a female doctor in a white coat entered the waiting room. She had a profusion of wavy brown hair pulled back into a sensible ponytail, and carried a clipboard in her hands. Lisa rose as well, more slowly.

"All right," said the doctor. The name badge clipped onto her coat said her name was Dr. Amin. "The patient is out of the woods and in a stable condition, although if you'd been any later getting him here it might have been a different story. He was incredibly lucky. Somehow the bullets managed to miss his vital organs, but he had lost a lot of blood." She looked between Waylon and Lisa, and said, "You saved his life."

Waylon covered his face and sobbed in relief. Lisa rubbed his back, and he took a few deep breaths to get himself back under control.

"Are you family?" said Dr. Amin.

"Yes," said Waylon at the same time as Lisa said "No".

The doctor's brows rose, and Waylon exchanged an apologetic look with Lisa before explaining to the doctor, "I'm his husband."

"I see," said the doctor. She glanced down at Waylon's hand, no doubt looking for a wedding band. She didn't find one, but Waylon still had Catherine Gluskin's engagement ring on his pinkie. She must have decided that was good enough, or else she read the anxiety and distress written plainly in every line of Waylon's face and body and recognised the anguished worry of a lover. No doubt she saw enough worried spouses come through her hospital doors. "All right," she said. "There'll be some paperwork for you to fill out later, Mr…?"

"Park."

"Mr. Park. In addition to his wounds, your husband has shown some strange readings that we would like to investigate further. He's currently sleeping, but would you like to see him?"

"Yes," Waylon nodded. He glanced at Lisa, who was watching him stone-faced and pale. "I'm sorry," he whispered, even as he began to follow Dr. Amin through the doors. "I need to know he's okay."

Lisa didn't reply, and Waylon turned away from her and jogged to keep up with the doctor. Dr. Amin led him down a sterile corridor to a recovery ward. There were four beds in the small ward, but Waylon instantly zeroed in on the one in the furthest right corner. Dr. Amin led him over to Eddie's bed, and then quietly drew the curtain around them to give him some privacy. Waylon practically fell into the chair positioned beside the bed, and stared at Eddie's unconscious form. His skin was pale and bruised, his body criss-crossed with bandages. He looked older, and frailer, than Waylon had ever seen him. If he had been a normal man he probably would have been dead, Waylon mused. How bizarre to be thankful to Murkoff for their experiments for once. He took one of Eddie's hands in his own, before shuffling his chair closer and laying his head on Eddie's chest.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that. The hospital staff must have taken pity on him because they didn't wake or move him.

Waylon was dozing with his head pillowed on his arms on the edge of Eddie's mattress when he felt him stir. Lifting his head, his eyes locked at once with Eddie's piercing blue ones.

"You're awake," Waylon gasped. He hadn't expected the man to come around for a long while yet, although he didn't have much frame of reference for these things. How similar or different was variant physiology to that of a regular human, he wondered.

Eddie glanced only briefly at Waylon before darting his eyes around the room. "Where…? Oh, no. No." He tensed up and began trying to sit up. Waylon placed his hands on Eddie's chest and tried to push him back down, but that only made him more agitated. In a frantic hurry to calm the man down before Security had to get involved, Waylon grabbed Eddie's face and leaned as close as he could.

"Eddie, look at me. Eddie." He made his voice sharp, to cut through the man's confusion. Eddie obeyed without thinking, his wide blue gaze fastening onto Waylon's face. Softening his voice a little now, Waylon said, "It's me, you know me. Remember? It's your Waylon."

"…Waylon?" Eddie sounded unsure, and his expression said he didn't quite believe what he was seeing. "Is it real?" He was breathing shallowly, and his body vibrated with tension. "Say it isn't a dream."

"It's not a dream," Waylon said. He pressed a soft kiss to Eddie's lips to prove it. "See?" Eddie reclined back onto his pillows, only to wince in pain. "You've got to rest, you're pretty beaten up. You took a bullet for me. Well, a few bullets." He offered Eddie a grateful smile.

"I didn't want to see you hurt," Eddie replied. He seemed suddenly exhausted, as though his panic had depleted all the limited energy he had. It was a far cry from his usual near-inhuman vitality, and Waylon didn't like it.

"The doctor said you got off really lucky. It's a miracle you're alive."

"Waylon… you're crying."

Waylon dashed a hand across his eyes. It came away wet. "I was just worried," he mumbled.

"Come here." Eddie shifted himself to one side and held out his arms. Waylon struggled with the rail on the edge of the bed for a moment, somehow got it lowered, and then crawled onto the bed with Eddie. It was a tight fit, but Waylon pressed the length of his body against Eddie's, Eddie wrapping one arm around him to hold him snug and close. Waylon pressed his face against Eddie's chest and breathed in. He smelled wrong, too much of antiseptic and the unfamiliar laundry detergent on the sheets, but underneath Waylon could still discern the man's unique scent. It had an instant effect on him, causing some of the tension in his every muscle to drain away.

"I shouldn't lean on you," Waylon said, lifting his head. "Your wounds-"

"Shh. Darling, I can endure a little pain if it means I can be close to you. Can't you give the man who almost died for you that much?"

Waylon laughed and lowered his head back down. He closed his eyes and breathed evenly, pretending he was back in the house in the woods, just him and Eddie alone.

"I did dream," Eddie said after a while. He was stroking Waylon's hair, running his fingers through the short locks. "I dreamed you left me. Say you won't ever leave me, darling. I can't be alone."

"Shh, it's all right. I'm here and I'm not leaving you. You're mine, remember?"

"Yes, I remember." Waylon glanced up to see Eddie smile. They lay there for a while, and pretty soon he heard Eddie begin to snore. He must have drifted off himself, too. He awoke to a gentle hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see an apologetic looking nurse standing over him.

"Excuse me, I'm sorry, sir, but it's time for me to take some readings."

"Oh, right." Waylon sat up, then got off the bed. Eddie awoke as he did so, and eyed the nurse with suspicion. She was a young dark-skinned woman with a pleasant, professional air, and seemed almost as nervous of the big man as Eddie was of her. "It's all right," Waylon assured Eddie. "She just wants to check on how you're doing. Please let her do her job?"

"Don't go," Eddie said and grabbed Waylon's wrist. Waylon looked at the nurse, who smiled and said, "It's all right, sir, your husband can stay if you want. I'll just be a minute or two."

Eddie watched her darkly and didn't deign to speak to her, but he submitted to be prodded and poked, if only because Waylon asked it of him. When the nurse was done she politely thanked both of them and went away with her equipment, but not before letting them know that breakfast would be served soon. Waylon blinked. He hadn't realised it was morning already, but sure enough the first rays of winter sunshine were creeping through the vertical blinds on the window. How long had passed since they left the house? Was it only hours, or days? He was too mixed up to tell. It all felt like one big blur. When the nurse was gone, Waylon opened the blinds and looked out at the day. There were a few clouds in the sky, and snow still lingered on the ground.

"She called you my husband," Eddie said when they were alone again.

Waylon turned back to him. "I told them we were married so they'd let me in to see you. I guess they'll figure out the truth eventually, but…" He shrugged. "Is it weird?"

"Husband." Eddie sampled the word, considering it.

"It's not 'bride'," Waylon said.

"No. It suits you, though."

Waylon returned to the chair at Eddie's bedside. They sat companionably until a member of hospital staff came around with a tray of food on a cart. Breakfast consisted of a small bowl of lukewarm scrambled eggs, two rashers of bacon, and a white bread roll. It wasn't the most appetising fare, but their rations at the house had gotten a little thin in the last weeks. Waylon's stomach rumbled and he realised he hadn't eaten in a long time.

"Here, darling," Eddie said, loading his fork with eggs and holding it out for Waylon.

Waylon shook his head. "That's for you," he said. "You need to recover your strength." But at Eddie's hurt look, he relented, and allowed him to feed him. He drew the line after one mouthful of eggs and a bite of bacon, though. "No more, you finish the rest. I can get something from the cafeteria downstairs." Eddie fussed but wolfed down the rest of the food without much more complaint. He was hungry too.

After finishing his food, Eddie seemed tired again, so Waylon stayed with him just long enough for him to doze off once more, and then, finally, he took his leave.

He was rumpled, tired, and hungry. He had given himself a cursory wash in one of the bathrooms when they had arrived and while he'd been waiting to see if Eddie would live or die, but there was only so much he could do with soap and water from a sink. He was dying for a shower.

He ran into Lisa in the hallway. She was leaning against the wall with a grim look on her face, a plastic carrier bag in her hands.

"Lisa! Were… Were you here all night?"

"Most of it," she said. "There's a 24-hour supermarket down the street. I went out and got you some clothes." She held up the bag, which Waylon took. They walked together until they reached a bathroom, and Waylon ducked inside to change. Inside one of the stalls, Waylon opened the carrier bag to find a pair of jeans, a plain white t-shirt and a brown zip-through hoodie. She had even thrown in a pack of new underwear, a couple pairs of socks and a pair of blue sneakers. They were off-brand, but looked similar enough to his old ones. He had to smile. She knew him so well.

Freshly attired, Waylon put his dirty clothes into the plastic bag and then into the trash. He didn't need to walk around stinking of sweat and blood. His bloodstained blue sweater was still in the car. He didn't know if he would ever be able to wash it properly, and he probably wouldn't be able to wear it again without being reminded of kneeling in the barn with Sullivan's cock in his mouth, not to mention what happened after, but it didn't feel right to throw it away. It had been a gift, and one made with love.

He emerged from the bathroom to find Lisa waiting for him. "Come on," she said. "I'm hungry, and I'm guessing you are too."

"Starving, but I don't have any money."

"Good thing you've got me, then."

Waylon walked nervously at Lisa's side as they made their way downstairs to the cafeteria. He was eaten up with guilt. Lisa paid for a couple of sandwiches and coffees, and they took a table in the far corner where they could watch the entrance. There weren't many people in the cafeteria this early. Regular visiting hours wouldn't start until later in the day, and the pair had the place almost to themselves, for which Waylon was grateful. He ate half his sandwich in big, mindless bites, hardly tasting it. Once he had taken the edge off his hunger, he sipped some of his coffee. It tasted bad, but it was hot and caffeinated, and that was all that mattered.

"So," Lisa said. Waylon set his coffee down and forced himself to meet her eyes. "Are you going to tell me?"

"Tell- Tell you what?" Waylon flexed his fingers nervously. Lisa just watched him, her brows lifted, patient. He couldn't lie to her. She knew all his tics and tells by heart. He slumped his shoulders and scrubbed his hands over his face.

"Who is he, Waylon? Why are we waiting around for hours for him instead of getting the hell out of here like we should? Why are you risking your life _and mine_ for this man?"

"I told you he was a patient."

"And?"

"I can't leave him. I'm responsible for him."

With an incredulous expression, Lisa said, "He's an adult, Waylon. He's not a child, and you're not responsible for jack shit. I know he saved you, but you saved him right back. You're even, okay? You don't owe him anything."

"It's more complicated than that. Lisa, I…" He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I love him."

He had expected Lisa to blow up at him, had expected rage and hurt at his betrayal—all of which would be completely justifiable. He had not been expecting the tender look of pity that came into her eyes.

"Oh, Way." Lisa reached across the little table and placed a hand on Waylon's wrist. "No you don't. Baby, you don't."

"I do. Why…?"

"Let me guess. You've been hiding out with this guy for all this time? What happened? You said yourself that he's crazy." Her expression hardened, but her anger wasn't directed at Waylon. In a voice as cold as steel, she said, "Baby, tell me what he did."

Waylon thought back, back to the memories his mind did its best gloss over these days. The chase, the "wedding". The long weeks in the darkness of the Vocational Block, pain and humiliation on a blood-stained mattress. He tried to connect those memories to the man upstairs he had spent the night beside and felt only confusion. Confusion, and a sensation of deepest shame welling up inside him. He didn't want Lisa to know about that time. He didn't want her to know all the things he had done—things Eddie had made him do, other things he had chosen to do himself. He didn't want her to know the things he had discovered about himself, the lengths he had gone to and the depths to which he had sunk. "That doesn't matter now," he said, feeling just as pathetic as he sounded.

"Waylon, were you being held against your will?"

Waylon realised that Lisa was holding herself back, keeping herself outwardly calm, for his benefit. The storm flashing in her dark eyes told the true story of her emotions. He swallowed.

"At… At first, yes. You don't understand what it was like in there. I was safer with him than on my own."

"I see," said Lisa. She had gone pale.

"And then, it just made sense to stay together. I don't think any other patients survived. He's evidence of the experiments they were doing in there, Lis." He took another gulp of his coffee, partly to wet his dry throat and partly to stall for time. His hand was shaking. "But he's… different now. I really think I got through to him. Although, I don't know how long that will last with the…" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "With the walrider around."

"That's another reason why we should get out of here as soon as possible. I don't know what effect it's going to have on any of these people," Lisa said, glancing around to indicate the hospital as a whole. Waylon chewed at his lower lip. The creature's frequency had affected doctors as well as patients in Mount Massive. How long would it take before the people around them started to suffer the effects? "Look, Way," Lisa said, leaning closer. "It's clear he's gotten into your head somehow. I don't know what fucked up shit he did to you, or what else happened, but you're not thinking straight. You think you're in love? Well, from where I'm standing it looks like this nut-job held you prisoner for months and did god knows what to you. Waylon, did he…" Her voice broke, as though she couldn't even bear to say the word. "Did he _rape_ you?" she mouthed.

Waylon burned with shame. He couldn't meet his wife's eyes.

"I don't… It doesn't… I don't want to talk about that," he stammered. He had been trying so hard, and succeeding for the most part, to keep these two parts of his life compartmentalised and separate. He had been able to deal with it, that way. But now they were crashing together, and if he told Lisa the truth it would all be too real. It didn't help that he didn't seem to even know what the truth was any more. How aware had Eddie been, back then, of what he was doing? Wandering around half in a dream, had he even been cognisant of Waylon's attempts to refuse or escape him?

It was pointless to make excuses for him. He had raped him, hurt and terrorised him, and Waylon loved him anyway.

"Oh god, Lisa, I'm so fucked up," he groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry."

"It's all right, baby," Lisa said softly. She moved into the seat beside Waylon and gathered him into her arms. She held him as he broke down, and every moment Waylon hated himself because he didn't deserve her support or her reassurance, he didn't deserve her love.

Later, when the storm of Waylon's emotions had passed and left him an exhausted shell, Lisa got him water and a big pile of candy that they shared. The cafeteria was busier now, so they moved on until they found a deserted waiting room in an area that didn't seem to be in use. Rows of chairs stood empty, with more of them stacked against the back wall, and the lights were dim. It was as private as they were going to get.

"There's one thing I still don't get," Waylon said at length. "Those guys who came to the house didn't act like they thought I had the walrider." He thought of Carter and Sullivan who had cornered him alone and hadn't shown any fear of him at all. If they had thought the walrider was near they would have gunned him down at once rather than take the risk of playing with him.

"Do you really think Murkoff is the kind of company to be totally honest with its employees?" Lisa said. "There's probably some higher-up pulling the strings, who just wanted to see what would happen."

"Ugh, that sounds like them," Waylon said, thinking of Jeremy Blaire. Blaire was toast, but he wouldn't be surprised if there were dozens of others just like him still on the Murkoff company payroll. "They're still trying to contain it, I guess. Or they were testing me…"

"To see if you could control it. They want it back," Lisa said. "And if you're a successful host they'll want you too."

"Or you. What… What are you going to do with it?"

"For now, nothing."

"…You said before that you heard it… talking to you sometimes."

"Yeah. Well. Sometimes I think I can hear Miles talking instead, or someone else, a third voice. Like they're trying to tell me something, but I can't hear clearly enough. But mostly it's the creature."

"It's not supposed to _be_ a creature," said Waylon. "It's meant to be just… just machines."

"Look, I don't care what those doctors said in all their bullshit notes," said Lisa. "This thing is more than just nanomachines. It has an… awareness."

Waylon shivered. The possibility of the patients' superstitions being true was too chilling to contemplate, and too fantastical. He didn't believe in the supernatural, but then, he didn't believe half of the things he had seen by this point.

It was about midday when a young man in scrubs entered the deserted waiting area. A look of relief passed over his face when he saw Waylon, and he approached. "Mr. Park! There you are. Please come with me, your husband has been asking for you," said the harried-looking young nurse.

Waylon looked at Lisa, who shook her head. Lowering his voice, he said hurriedly, "He'll just make trouble if I don't go to him. I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"I don't want _you_ to get hurt," Lisa hissed in return. Waylon shook his head and went anyway. Left behind again, Lisa watched her husband run off to the madman's bedside and a distinct black aura began to form around her. "I think it's time I had a word of my own with Lover Boy," she murmured to herself.

* * *

When Lisa made her way upstairs the commotion had passed, Waylon presumably having succeeded in calming the patient down. She waited until she saw Waylon exit the ward and head down the hallway towards the vending machines before she stalked forward and into the ward, closing the door behind her. She was glad the other three beds were empty, she wanted some alone time with the man who had kept her husband from her all these long months.

"I want to talk to you," she said, approaching the bed. The man looked at her, startled at first but his attitude almost instantly shifted to aggression. She realised she didn't even know his name.

"And who the fuck are you?" he snarled.

"Aren't you a charmer?" Lisa stood at the end of his bed and folded her arms. "We haven't been formally introduced, have we? I'm Lisa, Waylon's wife."

"Eddie Gluskin," the man murmured. He looked at her with more interest now, his eyes roaming over every inch of her as though appraising and cataloguing every part. It made her skin crawl. Everything about this man set off alarm bells in her brain, and all her instincts told her to get the hell away from him. There was something behind his blue eyes that wasn't quite human, something distinctly _wrong_. The thought of her quiet, sensitive husband being at this creature's mercy for months filled her with anguish and rage.

"I want you to tell me what you've been doing with my husband," she said, her eyes narrowed.

Gluskin scowled at her, his scarred lips pulling into a sneer. "If there's one thing I hate it's a woman with no self-respect," he said. "He doesn't want you any more, you pathetic slut. He's mine now." Lisa grit her teeth, folding her arms and holding onto her self-control by a thread. He pulled his blankets aside and tried to rise from the bed, although his movements were halting and weak. Any other man would still be unconscious, Lisa thought. Just her luck Waylon would fall prey to a damned super-strong monster. If he was a patient at Mount Massive, there was a chance he had been a part of Project Walrider. Miles had told her some of what that involved, and while she wasn't heartless enough to not feel pity for the men subjected to that barbaric experiment, he had also told her about the enhanced strength and erratic, aggressive behaviour of the so-called "variants". She had no doubt in her mind that this man would kill her if she gave him the opportunity.

He rose to his feet, pulling free from the tubes and monitors attached to his massive body, setting alarms bleeping, and advanced towards her. Lisa refused to step back. He wanted to see her intimidated, and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Jesus, he was twice the size of Waylon, and Waylon wasn't a small man, and Lisa knew all too well how much of a pushover Waylon could be. Frowning, she put out a hand to halt Gluskin's approach. "Don't come another step closer, you raping piece of shit," she hissed. He laughed at her and kept coming.

Lisa was shocked at how swiftly her own monster responded. With a narrowing of her eyes the darkness of the walrider surrounded her, filling the little room with buzzing smoke like a swarm of flies. She took great pleasure in the change that came over Gluskin's face. His eyes widened as he took in the smoke and realised what it meant, and then he began to shake his head as though trying to rid himself of the nanoswarm's distinctive song. Lisa heard it too, vibrating her very skull, but it was a part of her now and she had it under control… or so she thought. Miles had tamed the monster somewhat before passing it on to her. "To protect you", he had said, "until you find your man again."

Sorrow further fuelling her rage, she said, "I told you not to come any closer." Her voice had a grating tone to it like a buzzsaw. Gluskin hesitated, and then he backed off, grimacing. Lisa smiled.

"Get out of my head," Gluskin grunted. He clawed at his face and head, drawing blood, and shook and swayed. "Get out of my head, crazy fucking bitch!"

"You don't like this, do you?" Lisa was the one advancing now, and all she saw before her was the pathetic creature who had hurt the man she loved, all she felt was righteous, vindictive fury. She drew her hand back and then slammed her fist into Gluskin's jaw, putting some of the walrider's strength into her movements. The man flew backward and smashed into a shelving unit against the wall, bringing the whole thing crashing down to the floor. He recovered quickly, she could give him that. Back on his feet, he roared and launched himself at her. This time Lisa didn't bother expending her own strength. A shape materialised between herself and Gluskin—humanoid, vaguely feminine, a black wraith with glowing eyes—and he couldn't throw himself aside fast enough before the apparition grabbed him by the throat and lifted him into the air. It slammed him into one wall and then the other. The wounds on his back reopened and smeared blood on the walls. The walrider shook him like a rag doll, and then pinned him to the wall several feet from the floor. He struggled, gasping for breath, his body growing weaker every second. "It's not nice when someone touches you when you don't want it, when someone hurts you, is it?" Lisa growled. The wraith morphed into black tendrils that looped themselves around Gluskin's arms, legs, and throat and held him pinioned to the wall, spread-eagled. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just kill you right here and now."

Gluskin didn't answer. His bulging eyes were glazed, he probably didn't even see her any more. The walrider assaulted his mind as well as his body, and whatever was left of his sanity was being shredded and consumed.

Somewhere beyond the storm of hissing rage, Lisa was vaguely aware of other sounds—patients screaming, moaning, crying as the presence of the walrider affected them, and a rhythmic thumping she couldn't identify.

"Well? Do you even have anything to say?"

Gluskin's eyes slid past her, and Lisa followed his pleading gaze to the entrance. Through the window in the top half she saw Waylon pounding on the door. He was shouting something, and there were tears in his eyes. At first Lisa couldn't make sense of what she was seeing, or else she didn't care. The darkness was within her, and she didn't want to be distracted from her kill. Then Waylon met her eyes and screamed something she couldn't hear. His face was flushed, his cheeks wet with tears. He was throwing himself against the door with all his weight now, and Lisa couldn't understand why it wouldn't open, until she realised she had been unwittingly holding it closed with nothing but a thought, and more black tendrils were lashed around the door handle, keeping it securely fastened as any lock. Dimly, she was aware that she loved Waylon, and that Waylon was distraught and that she ought to care. If she really concentrated she could hear snatches of his words, and the one she heard over and over was "please". But the loudest voice she could hear was the guttural, nonsensical vocalisations of the walrider deep in her mind, and though she didn't understand the words she knew it was urging her to kill. She looked back at Gluskin. He was pale, and he struggled weakly against the black coils that held him. He was fighting for breath, and before long he would be nothing but a lifeless husk, one more sacrifice to the demon that had made her its home.

Suddenly she was filled with abject horror. She had never hurt anyone before except in self-defence or to defend someone she cared about. She had never been cruel, and had never indulged in revenge. Quickly, because she knew this moment of clarity could evaporate as soon as it had come on, she exerted her will on the creature and forced it to stand down. The effort of it forced her to her knees, but after an agitated swirl around the room like a miniature black tornado, the shadow-swarm thickened around her and then, finally, sank beneath her skin. It still fought her, so much that it felt like she was going to be torn apart. She didn't understand it, Miles hadn't had this much trouble…

The door to the ward burst open at the same time as Gluskin fell heavily to the floor. Waylon ran to him, not to her. Somehow, the patient was still alive, but barely. Lisa got to her feet and staggered over to the two men. Waylon was kneeling beside Gluskin's crumpled body, fussing over him, sobbing brokenly.

"Way…" Lisa reached out. Waylon flinched away from her the moment her fingertips touched her shoulder. He looked up at her like he didn't know who she was, and it broke her heart. "I'm s-"

"What the hell is going on in here?" More people were pouring into the small ward now, led by a uniformed Security guard and a cluster of medical staff. The din of distressed patients was still going on, and Lisa cringed to think of all the people she had inadvertently hurt in her anger. The guard was a tall, burly man with a red face who surveyed the scene in the ward as though he didn't quite know what to make of it—Gluskin lying bleeding on the floor, Waylon crying over him, and Lisa looking on.

To Lisa's surprise Waylon took control of the situation. He wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve and said, "He fell. I tried to tell him he wasn't well enough to be out of bed yet. Please, someone, help him."

It was a weak explanation and didn't take into account the momentary insanity that had fallen over the hospital floor for those few terrible minutes, never mind the blood smears high on the walls, but the guard accepted it after a moment's confused hesitation. It was preferable to the alternative, she supposed. People liked to believe what was safest.

"Out of the way." The female doctor who had spoken to Lisa and Waylon before pushed to the forefront of the crowd and came over to examine her patient. She started giving orders at once, and within minutes she and a cluster of other hospital staff had gotten Gluskin onto a gurney and whisked him away, while the guard ushered the gawking onlookers away, demanding they clear the hallway and return to their rooms. Lisa and Waylon were left alone in the wreckage. Waylon rose to his feet and faced her. His eyes were shadowed, haunted.

"If he dies I'll never forgive you," Waylon whispered.

"I'm sorry."

Waylon just stared at her, and then nodded dumbly. He turned on shaky legs and made to leave. Lisa reached out for him but he stumbled away from her.

"You can't bring that thing around the kids," he said, not looking at her. He was staring at the open door, staring after Gluskin.

Lisa swallowed down her anger and her bitterness, wrestled for control of her emotions and the beast that fed off them. "I know," she said. The reality of that truth hit her hard; she didn't know why she had thought it would be okay. She'd thought she could keep the thing under control. She had been living in a dream world.

"I have to-"

"Yeah, I know. Go on," Lisa said. She stepped back, her shoulders slumped in defeat. Waylon gave her one grateful glance, nodded, and then left.

* * *

Eddie would live. That was the upshot according to Dr. Amin, which Waylon relayed to Lisa some time later, after Eddie was once again out of the woods. Waylon and Lisa sat on a wall outside the back of the hospital, where a small garden had been built for patients to stroll or smoke in. It was deserted and covered in snow now, but if Lisa felt the cold she didn't show it. Waylon was just glad of the fresh air.

"Take the car," Lisa said. She took the keys out of her jacket pocket and handed them to Waylon. She also got out the wad of files and Miles Upshur's notebook. Flipping to a clean page near the back of the notebook, she scribbled an address. "Shelly has the kids here, go to them and keep them safe."

Waylon nodded. Lisa gave him the notebook and papers, and Waylon stuffed the lot into his hoodie pocket.

"What about you?" Waylon said quietly.

"I'll be fine, but I can't be around people. I almost lost control today. What happens when I lose it for real?"

Waylon was silent. In his mind's eye he saw Jeremy Blaire in pieces, blood and viscera splattered all across the Mount Massive lobby. He wanted to argue with her, wanted to convince her it would all be all right and to stay with him, but he knew too well how real the danger was, and so he kept quiet. The sight of her moments away from killing Eddie was too fresh and too upsetting. His heart hurt like he'd been punched in the chest, and his eyes felt dry and sore, as if he had simply run out of tears.

"Don't go to the house," Lisa was saying. She looked down. Waylon saw the glitter of tears in her eyes, behind the curtain of her hair. "Just in case. But I don't think they'll come after you any more. You already did your part, your footage is up, right? I'll make sure they know I have the walrider. They'll come after me, not you." She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of Miles's jacket.

"Lisa…"

"Shelly will probably offer you a place to stay, or… or get in touch with Megan. You know my family's always loved you. They'll help you out."

"Lisa."

"Megan's husband is a lawyer, remember? I'm sure he'll be able to do something. You can bring them down, Way, you can destroy them-"

" _Lisa_."

Lisa stopped and turned to him. Waylon turned his body toward her and took her hands in his. "I'll be all right," he said. "It's you I'm worried about."

"I'll find some way to destroy the walrider," she said. "There must be someone out there who can help."

"And then you'll come back to us?"

"I… Yes. I promise." She leant toward him, almost falling, and Waylon wrapped his arms around her. She cried against his chest as months of pent up emotion found their outlet at last.

"The boys need their mother," Waylon said softly.

Lisa lifted her head. Her eyes were red and swollen from tears, but she was still the most beautiful woman Waylon had ever seen. "What about you?" she said.

"I need you too," Waylon admitted. He didn't say any more than that. Lisa nodded, sniffed, and laid her head against his shoulder, and they stayed there like that until eventually the cold cut too deeply to let them continue sitting still.

They rose to their feet then and strolled around the outside of the hospital building, talking of this and that, reminiscing and enjoying the time in each other's company while it lasted, before re-entering the building through the main entrance at the front. That was when Waylon saw them—two figures in suits, one male and one female, speaking to a member of staff at the reception desk. Waylon couldn't have said why the sight of them put his hackles up, but he nudged Lisa with his elbow and nodded surreptitiously towards them. Lisa glanced over at them, then frowned and met Waylon's eyes. She didn't need to say anything for Waylon to know they were on the same page. They slipped through reception and upstairs without drawing the strangers' attention.

"You think-?"

"Murkoff. Believe me."

"Already?"

"I can draw them away from you. You shouldn't hang around though." Lisa caught Waylon's hand, bringing him to a halt. They faced one another in the middle of the hallway, just feet from Eddie's new room. "Please just go," she entreated. "Leave Gluskin and go."

Waylon knew she had his best interests in mind, and those of their children, but he just couldn't do what she asked. "I can't," he said. "You know I can't do that. They'll kill him, or worse, take him back into another one of their facilities, for all I know into another walrider program."

"Would that be the worst thing?" Lisa hissed, before clamping her lips together, a look of pain in her eyes. She knew she shouldn't have said that, but Waylon also knew that she meant it.

Sadly, Waylon shook his head. "I can't do that," he said again. "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, Lisa."

Lisa turned to look at the door to Eddie's room. "You're really going to bring him around the kids?" she said. "An escaped mental patient? What was he in there for anyway?"

"He wouldn't hurt the kids," Waylon said quietly.

"You're sure about that?" Lisa put her hands on her hips. That tone of voice and posture was usually Waylon's cue to back down and apologise for whatever they were arguing about, but this was more important than a petty every-day disagreement. "Why won't you tell me what he was in for? Way, what did he do?"

"He wouldn't hurt the kids," Waylon said again, more firmly this time.

Lisa threw up her hands in defeat. After a pause, she said, "You don't just throw away ten years of marriage, Waylon."

"I'm not throwing anything away," Waylon said. "But I just…" He spread his hands helplessly. "It happened. I didn't ask for it, I didn't want it. I never wanted to feel this way."

"It's not real," Lisa said. "What you're feeling isn't real, you'll see that in time. Then you'll regret not leaving him behind."

All Waylon could do was shrug. "Maybe," he admitted. "But I don't have any choice. No, don't look at me like that, I _don't_. You know me."

Lisa sighed. "…Yeah, I do. You're too good, Way."

"Not that good."

"Come here." Lisa reached for him and Waylon wrapped her up in his arms. They pressed close together, and for a moment Waylon allowed himself to breathe in the scent of her hair. She smelled like home. There wasn't much more they could say that hadn't already been said, or that didn't need words at all. Lisa had spent months searching for her husband thinking she would save him, but now that she had, she wasn't taking him home like she had thought. Waylon had longed to be reunited with his wife for so long as well, only to be parted again. He supposed things were never quite as simple as you planned.

"Be safe," Lisa said.

"You too," Waylon replied. "These bastards are dangerous. Don't let them catch you-"

"I won't," Lisa said. "They can't touch me, I won't let them. Just worry about yourself and the kids, okay?"

Waylon nodded. Lisa pressed her lips to his, and then pulled back. Waylon watched her, and even though a part of him wanted to go after her, he stayed where he was.

"Goodbye, Way," she said.

"You'll know where to find me," said Waylon. "You'll come back. If… If not for me, then for the boys."

"Of course." She wiped her eyes. "I love you."

"I love you too."

She gave him a sad smile and turned away. She walked briskly toward the end of the hall, breaking into a jog as she approached the turn, and then she was gone.

Waylon didn't give himself time to hurt. He ducked into Eddie's room and crossed to the bed. Eddie was sleeping. Waylon stroked his hair and kissed his brow to wake him up, and when those blue eyes opened and locked on his own, Waylon felt a strange pang. Had he made the wrong decision? Was he just completely insane for choosing a madman he'd known only a few months over the woman who had been his friend and lover for almost his entire life? But it wasn't really about that, he knew. It wasn't as simple as choosing one or the other, and it wasn't even as simple as a matter of debt. He wasn't prepared to condemn Eddie Gluskin to imprisonment and torture—if he had his way, Murkoff would never get their hands on either of them ever again—but besides that, he simply didn't want to leave him.

"Eddie, wake up," he said softly. "Come on. It's time to go."

"What?" Eddie was groggy, and unsurprisingly so. He had scraped through the jaws of death twice in as many days, Waylon was sure anyone else would have been comatose at the least. "Darling, is that you?"

"It's me. Eddie, I need you to sit up, can you do that for me?"

"Why… what's happening?" He suddenly clutched Waylon's arm hard enough to bruise. "What happened to that crazy bitch?"

"That crazy bitch is my wife," Waylon said. "And she's saving both our asses again, but it might be all for nothing if we don't get out of here."

Eddie took a breath. He seemed infinitely weary, but he said, "Lead the way, my love."

"Can you walk?"

"Of course-" Eddie lurched out of the bed, only to stumble the second step he took. Waylon caught him, but his bulk and weight were too much, and he couldn't hold him up. They both fell to their knees, Waylon swearing under his breath. He didn't know why, but for some reason he found those suits downstairs even more sinister than the Tactical thugs and their guns.

"All right," Waylon said, recovering his footing and helping Eddie back upright. Eddie perched on the side of the bed, red faced, and Waylon said, "I'll fix this."

"Waylon, tell me what's going on. Are they coming for us again?" Before Waylon could answer, Eddie said, with a tremor in his voice, "You should leave me, darling."

Waylon stared at him. Of all the things he had never expected to come out of Eddie Gluskin's mouth. "Not you too," he growled. "I'm _not_ leaving you alone," he said. _Not after everything_. "So don't give me any of that shit." His voice broke as he said it, and he realised his eyes were hot with a fresh wash of tears.

"Darling, don't- Don't cry." He reached for him. "I'll be all right, dar- Waylon. I'll only slow you down."

Waylon glared and snapped, "This selfless act doesn't suit you. Now shut up and wait while I figure this out. I'll be right back."

"O-of course. Anything you say."

Waylon strode from the room, leaving Eddie with a stunned expression on his face. He found an unattended wheelchair in the next hallway and took it, trying to look as though he had every right to it and knew exactly what he was doing. It was difficult to appear confident when he was also watching every corner for the sight of those Murkoff suits. When he returned to the room he found Eddie half way through dressing. Some of the clothes he'd had on when they arrived were in a bag in a locker beside the bed, but not everything had made it. His shirt and sweater had presumably been thrown away, but the yellow scarf Waylon had given him was there. He wrapped it around his neck, and Waylon draped a thick blanket from the bed over his knees. Eddie watched Waylon as he did this, his eyes full of tender emotion.

When they left the ward, Waylon looked up to see a cluster of people at the end of the hallway. They weren't looking their way, and seemed wrapped up in their own discussion for the moment. Dr. Amin looked to be mediating a discussion between a pair of uniformed police officers and the two suspicious suits Waylon had seen downstairs, and various hospital staff hovered around them, including the beefy Security guard. Waylon took advantage of their preoccupation and turned the opposite way.

The screaming started just as Waylon had got Eddie into a patient elevator and hit the button for the basement parking lot. His skull felt like it was being squeezed, like the pressure before a thunderstorm but a hundredfold. He glanced down to see Eddie gripping the armrests of the chair tightly, his body knotted with tension, his teeth gritted.

"Just hold on," Waylon said. "Just a little longer and we'll be out of here. Please." Eddie nodded, but otherwise didn't move. It was taking all his effort to do that much, Waylon realised, and he was profoundly grateful. On impulse, he leant over the back of the chair and wrapped his arms around Eddie's neck, pressed his lips to his cheek, and murmured, "Thank you. I love you."

Whether Waylon's words gave Eddie the strength to withstand the madness or if he repressed it on his own, they made it to the parking lot unscathed. When they reached the basement floor the ache in Waylon's head lessened, and his vision cleared somewhat as well. Eddie's body lost some of its rigid tension, and he began to breathe easier. The concrete went a long way to block the walrider's song, granting the two men back their sanity, but Waylon couldn't say the same for the rest of the poor bastards upstairs. He had guessed what Lisa had in mind, and from the clamour of crashes and screams he judged he had been right—she was using the nanoswarm to divert attention from Waylon and Eddie and lead the Murkoff operatives after their true target, the walrider, instead. He felt sick thinking about the danger she was putting herself in, and for his sake, when he clearly didn't deserve it.

He found the car easily enough. It was twice the size of anything else in the lot, and parked haphazardly at that. The problem only became apparent when Waylon had already reached the door—he glanced down, his eye caught by a flash of yellow, and groaned.

"No… Those assholes." The car's front wheel was clamped. They weren't going anywhere.

"Leave it to me," said Eddie. With some effort, he hoisted himself onto his feet. He swayed, unsteady, but didn't fall. Waylon didn't know how he did it. He looked around the lot, then selected a nearby car that looked suitable and staggered over to it. It was an old banger with a patch of rust on the back near the exhaust. Waylon's knowledge began and ended there, but Eddie seemed to know what he was doing. He smashed the window in with a swing of one huge fist. The glass shattered, and Eddie reached in and unlocked the door. The show of effortless strength, even in Eddie's weakened state, made Waylon feel warm and bite his lip. Eddie lowered himself into the driver's seat, used more of his brute strength to pull off a plastic panel beneath the steering wheel and started fiddling with the wires. He had somehow managed to purloin one of the blunt little knives that came with the hospital meals—where he had hidden it before now Waylon had no idea—and was using it to saw through the wires before stripping them with his fingernails.

"You know how to hotwire a car?" Waylon said.

"Misspent youth, darling. Do get in." He paused to reach across and open the passenger door from the inside.

Waylon looked around nervously, convinced they would be caught at any moment. He didn't like being unarmed. "I'll drive," he said. "Can you get this thing started or not?"

"Almost got it, darling. And… _there_." The starter wires between Eddie's fingers sparked, and the engine roared to life. Waylon helped Eddie out of the car and around to the passenger door, then jogged back and took the driver's seat himself. People were starting to filter down into the parking lot, and would soon be packing in in droves, moving in a panicked herd as they fled whatever havoc Lisa was wreaking upstairs. Waylon didn't wait around to see what would happen. Foot heavy on the accelerator, he drove to the exit and up the ramp to street level, picked a direction at random, and drove. He headed out of town as soon as he was able, checking his mirrors every few seconds for signs of pursuit. There were none. Lisa had done what she'd promised, and Murkoff would be busy tailing her and her monster to worry about Waylon and his for a while.

The sun was setting as Waylon pulled onto a freeway. Traffic was light since it was the holidays, so Waylon dared to speed until the immediate rush of panic waned and he was calmer. Eddie slumped in the seat beside him, his last reserves of energy having been used up in their flight from the hospital. It was a miracle the man wasn't already dead several times over. Waylon glanced at him, took in his weary posture, waxy, pale skin and glazed eyes.

"Rest," he said. "We're safe for now. I'll… I'll take care of you."

Eddie's gaze slid Waylon's way. It was filled with devotion, but sadness too. "I'm sorry I won't get to meet… to meet your children…" he said.

"What?"

"Darling-"

"No. Shut up. You don't get to die now after everything. You bastard, don't make me do this on my own. You hear me? I can't be alone."

Eddie leant his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He was smiling. "Spending this time with you… it was better than I ever imagined. Thank you, darling. Waylon. It was… beautiful."

Waylon snarled, wiped his eyes, and kept his gaze resolutely on the road. He didn't look back at Eddie, even when he fell silent. He just kept driving.

* * *

Eddie awoke to warmth and light. There was a body beside him, with a familiar shape and scent. He blinked until his vision cleared, and saw he was lying in a sunlit room. It took an effort to turn his head, but when he did he was rewarded with the sight of his darling's beloved face. Waylon was nestled against him, his eyes closed, his body pressed close against Eddie's. He looked pale, and had a few lines on his face Eddie was sure he hadn't seen before. With his close-cropped hair and a couple of days worth of stubble on his jaw, Eddie didn't know how he had ever mistaken him for a woman, but he was still stunning all the same, and when he stirred and looked up at him with those big brown eyes, ringed by long lashes, it was almost enough to make Eddie's heart stop.

"You're awake," Waylon breathed. Eddie was too groggy to read the look in Waylon's eyes. "I wasn't sure…"

"How long was I asleep, darling?" he asked. His throat felt scratchy. Waylon sat up, and Eddie regretted the loss of his warmth at once. He lifted a hand to reach after him, but he didn't go far, just retrieved a glass of water from the nightstand and brought it to Eddie's lips. Eddie drank gratefully, and Waylon set the glass aside once more.

"A while," Waylon said. "How do you feel?"

"I…" He hurt, but it was a dim, background sensation, nothing he couldn't deal with. Nothing too unfamiliar. "I feel fine. Better for seeing your face, my love." Waylon laughed, shook his head, and lay back down beside him. Eddie didn't know what he was laughing at, but he didn't care because his love was pressed against him and he was warm and perfect, just perfect. The hard planes of his body fitted just right against his own. He wrapped an arm around Waylon's narrow waist and crushed him even closer, pressing his face into Waylon's hair and inhaling deeply. Waylon's left hand rested in the centre of Eddie's chest. Eddie took it with his free hand and lifted it, seeing how his mother's ring sparkled in the light. "You kept it," he said.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"That woman…" He shivered. He didn't want to remember that encounter in the hospital room. He hadn't felt that helpless since he was being forced into a Morphogenic Engine pod. It reminded him of when he was a boy, and it made him burn with shame. If he ever met that bitch again he would make her pay.

"I told you, didn't I?" Waylon said. "You're mine. I'm not leaving you."

"I won't leave you either," Eddie mumbled. His heart felt too big for his chest, it was painful. What had he possibly done to deserve such a loving, loyal wife? No, not a wife. Not a husband either, not really, but perhaps one day… He twined his fingers with Waylon's and brought both their hands to his chest. "Where are we?"

Waylon explained that they were staying with an old flame of Lisa's. Eddie listened, only half understanding. He didn't really care—all that mattered to him was that he was there with Waylon.

"…and when you're well enough, I guess you should meet the kids."

Eddie started paying attention again in a snap. Suddenly he was terrified. "What did you say?"

Waylon sat up, ran a hand through his short hair, and said, "The boys are here." He fixed Eddie with a grave look. "Can I trust you around them? Even though they're not yours-"

"They're yours," Eddie said in a broken whisper. His eyes filled with unexpected tears. Releasing Waylon's hand, he pressed his own over his face. He didn't want his darling to see him cry.

"Yeah," Waylon said. He stroked Eddie's hair absently, sending a fresh rush of warm affection through him. Did he even know what that simple tender act did to him? "Unless you feel up to it now?"

 _What_?

"I don't- Darling, I don't know, it's so sudden-"

"It's all right," Waylon soothed. "Get some more rest. We can do it another time-"

"No." Eddie's hand shot out and gripped Waylon's wrist. "Let's… I want to try now. Help me up."

"Can you walk?"

"I can for this. Help me up." Waylon let Eddie put one arm across his shoulders and steadied him as he rose from the bed. He felt weak, but he wasn't going to let that stop him. This was the moment he had been waiting his whole life for, when he would meet his beloved's children and they would live together as a family. It was his fondest dream coming true. He took a deep breath. "I'm… I'm ready. Let's go."

* * *

For all Waylon's worrying, the rest of the affair went on largely without his or Eddie's involvement. Lisa's sister's husband enlisted the help of several of his lawyer friends to get the ball rolling, using Miles's notes and files to continue what Waylon's tapes had begun in the mission to bring Murkoff Corporation to justice. Waylon and Eddie watched most of it unfold on the TV from the safety of a little guest-house on Shelly's ranch, which was remote but lacked any of the lonely atmosphere of Eddie's old childhood home. This was due not only to the presence of Waylon's boys, but Shelly and her partner had several dogs, not to mention chickens, goats, and even a couple of horses. Lisa's ex had left the police force after suffering an injury in the line of duty, and had apparently decided that a complete lifestyle change was what she needed. Her husband Kyle had the land, so they had moved out here to enjoy the peace and quiet of nature. The children spent most of their days racing around the grounds like wild things, playing with the animals and getting thoroughly dirty, even Noah who Waylon had always known to prefer playing video games to going outside.

Waylon had told their host the basics. She knew roughly what was happening from conversations with Lisa, but Waylon filled her in on the rest, including the attack on the house, the agents at the hospital, and Lisa's mission. He did not reveal that Eddie was a killer, but he did admit he had been a patient at Mount Massive—what conclusions she drew on her own, she kept to herself. He felt irresponsible for it, considering the danger, but he held fast to the trust he had chosen to place in Eddie, and hoped and prayed every day that the madness that had driven him to kill did not return. Eddie, for his part, was on his best behaviour. Waylon was relieved to deal with not the stiff manners of The Groom but the reserved man he had come to know that existed beneath that facade.

The boys had been overjoyed to see Waylon again, and Waylon felt the same. They had been leery of Eddie at first, the huge stranger who Waylon introduced as his friend, but the former patient was instantly enchanted by the both of them.

The winter stretched on. The weather here was milder than it had been in the mountains, and they enjoyed cool but sunny days in an idyllic setting. Gradually, their wounds healed. Waylon did his best to pick up the boys' education with the limited resources he had on hand, Eddie trailed around after him. Waylon decided Eddie needed something to occupy him—the devil makes work for idle hands, after all—so suggested to Shelly that she let him help out with the animals. She was a no-nonsense kind of woman, not one to sniff at the prospect of another set of hands to help with the workload, so she agreed. At first Waylon wasn't sure how Eddie would deal with taking instruction from a woman, but when he understood that it would please Waylon if he behaved, he took to it remarkably well. He was gentle with the animals in a way Waylon had never seen him, and in time even the children warmed up to him as well.

No one knew where Waylon was. He wasn't sure if it was known that Eddie was with him—if Peacock had divulged it, or someone at the hospital figured anything out—but no one came to the house. He was kept well out of it, for which he was grateful. Murkoff had their hands full and didn't send anybody else after him, and even the press kept away, leaving Waylon free to sit back and watch in satisfaction as Murkoff Corporation crumbled under not only legal proceedings but widespread public scrutiny. The sinister company may be large and wealthy, but it was not all powerful, not invincible. Heads rolled, figuratively if not literally.

It was hard to contemplate the fact that soon it would all be over. He considered that thought with a mix of hope and trepidation—and all the while he waited for Lisa to return. The more time that went by and she didn't come back, the more anxious Waylon became about her fate. He put on a brave face for the boys, and didn't mention it to Eddie. That was one thing he had to keep to himself, and it ate at him, and soured his triumph.

Meanwhile, his relationship with Eddie was becoming strained with a new kind of tension. Waylon wasn't as comfortable sleeping with Eddie when his kids were just a couple of walls away, his kids who still periodically asked when Mommy would be coming home. They shared a bedroom, and it was… difficult, more difficult than Waylon could have anticipated, to hold himself back. Eddie was getting impatient, unsatisfied with the furtive touches Waylon did allow, and in truth so was Waylon. They lay in bed one night, the farm peaceful and quiet around them and the boys asleep in their room, and held each other. Eddie's head rested on Waylon's chest as he listened to his heartbeat, while Waylon stroked the long silky strands of his hair.

"You'll have to tell them the truth some time, darling," Eddie said. Waylon still hadn't revealed the truth about his and Eddie's relationship—as far as the children knew, he was just a good friend. He didn't know how they would take the news. How did he even begin to tell his children that he and their mother were no longer together like they once were? It would break their hearts, especially when Lisa wasn't even there. "Are you ashamed of me?"

Waylon looked down at him. How could he explain to Eddie that any sane person would be ashamed to be with someone who had done the things he had? Did he even comprehend the atrocities he'd committed in the asylum? Did he even remember? And what of those he killed before? Women. Mutilated. Waylon had broken him of the walrider's control, but it would take considerable time, medication, and a great deal more psychiatric expertise than Waylon could offer to get Eddie anything close to safe. Right now the only thing holding him back was Waylon's firm hand upon his leash.

But even with all those facts, Waylon couldn't deny the pull he felt toward him. They were bound to one another as surely as if tied together by Eddie's ropes, not only by the vows they'd made or the ring on Waylon's finger, but by blood and suffering. Waylon wasn't willing to let go of him, and he knew the only way Eddie would ever let him go would be if one of them died, most likely at the other's hand. _Till death do us part_. He didn't think that was what it was supposed to mean.

"Don't you love me?"

Eddie had lifted his head and was looking up at him now. How were his eyes so blue? Waylon could drown in them. Could be he already had.

"You know I do," he said. If every other time he had said it had been a lie, he had meant it when it mattered. In the elevator as they fled the hospital, he had spoken true, and Eddie had known. Eddie's anxious expression smoothed. Waylon took Eddie's face in his hands and guided him up until their lips met. "You know I do…"

Eddie kissed him deeply, curled his body around him, and then as simply and naturally as breathing Waylon was opening up for him. "I have to be inside you, darling," he breathed.

Waylon nodded, flushed and suddenly needy. There was no lubricant, but he refused to let that stop him from getting what he wanted. He could take it. He licked his palm and reached down, slicked Eddie's cock and guided it to his entrance. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, baby. Fill me up again-" Eddie stopped his lips with a deep kiss, but the moment he sank inside him Waylon tore his mouth free and threw his head back with a sob. He clung onto Eddie's shoulders, his nails digging into his skin and leaving marks.

"Always." Eddie's mouth found Waylon's throat, which he bit and suckled as he fucked into him. Waylon knew then that there was no way he could go back; there was no way he could go without this again. Eddie's arms came around him, and then he rolled them over, putting Waylon on top. Waylon bared his teeth and raked his nails over every inch of flesh he could reach. He liked to see the pink lines left behind, proof that this man belonged to him.

"You're going to come inside me," Waylon said.

"Yes," Eddie gasped. Waylon was the one doing the fucking now, and Eddie was hanging on for the ride, watching Waylon every moment with undiluted adoration in his eyes.

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you. I worship you. Waylon, please-" Waylon tightened around him, grinding down hard. At the same moment he gave Eddie's nipples a hard pinch, smirking when the man flinched and blushed. "Oh god, oh god! I'm going to, I can't-"

"Come, Eddie," Waylon breathed. He sank his fingers into Eddie's hair and brought his face close to his, their noses almost touching. "Do it now." Eddie looked almost pained as he climaxed. His hips jerked erratically, his hands gripped Waylon's hips hard enough to leave purple bruises Waylon could admire later, and his throbbing cock pumped a flood of hot come deep inside Waylon's body. Waylon's eyes rolled back and he arched. He rode Eddie until he was spent, and then sat up upon him. "Watch me," he said. Eddie was panting and glassy-eyed but he obeyed, and Waylon bit his lip as he stroked himself to completion and spilled all over Eddie's stomach and chest, still grinding on Eddie's cock. Eddie groaned. Waylon slid a hand through the mess he'd made, and as he laid down beside Eddie he brought that hand to the other man's cheek, smearing white on his skin. "Mine," he murmured. He nudged his thumb against Eddie's lips and Eddie parted them, letting Waylon push inside. He shivered to feel Eddie's tongue flick against the pad of his thumb, tasting his seed.

"Yours," Eddie replied.

Eddie wrapped him up tightly in his arms and nuzzled into his hair. It felt warm and safe, and Waylon felt content. There was no question any more that Waylon was forever changed. He was a different person to the man who had first set foot in Mount Massive Asylum, and that man would never have understood the choices he had made up to this moment, and the choice he was making again now. It was inevitable, in a way. It had been inevitable the moment he had fallen into the Vocational Block, perhaps even before that; perhaps it had been decided the first moment his and Eddie's eyes met through the glass in the Morphogenic Engine chamber and Eddie had begged Waylon to save him. Since then they had saved each other, over and over in different ways. The man he had been would have run for the hills rather than bind himself to a killer—but he didn't think that man would have ever survived this far.

He intended to continue to survive. They both would—together.


End file.
